an extension of this divorced dad!simon piece.
simon—big, impenetrable, stoic, simon—losing his mind because his baby’s sick, and he doesn’t know what to do short of rushing her into an emergency room. lottie woke up in the dead of night screaming on the top of her lungs, crying her little heart out in a way he hasn’t seen since she was a colicky three month old, sweaty, ruddy-cheeked, and whining about her achey tummy and sore throat. her mother came by at six, four hours late, mind you, to drop her off, and she was just fine then, if not a little sniffly. he tries calling his ex-wife off the bat, to see if this was a new development, or something she conveniently forgot to mention, to no avail. it goes straight to voicemail all three times, to his chagrin.
he tries everything he can think of. she won’t take her medicine, can’t stomach anything at all, refuses damp towels, and a bath, won’t even accept water, for fuck’s sake. lottie’s always been a sweetheart, never gives simon any trouble beyond the occasional eye-roll. it isn’t like his girl to be so uncooperative, and that’s how he knows that she really is that miserable.
so, as a last ditch effort to ease lottie’s suffering, he crosses the front yard and pounds on your front door at half-past three in the morning, unable to find it in himself to feel bad about it. you’re a nurse, after all—at the very least, you’ll be able to tell him if he should bring her in to get checked out professionally.
by some stroke of luck, you’re still awake. exhausted, still in your thin scrubs, likely having worked the late shift, and looking at him like he’s grown a second head when you see him, bedraggled and flustered, in the dim glow of your porch light.
“she’s sick,” he informs you before you could even get a word out. the poorly creature in question sniffles, waving at you half-heartedly from simon’s arms. “i dunno what to do, she won’t stop cryin’,”
you don’t patronize him, or get angry that he’s disturbed you at such an ungodly hour. you simply step aside, welcoming him in, and reach for lottie. “give her here, then,”
simon stands by helplessly as you tend to his baby, rubbing her back, cooing to her, even earning a soft giggle or two. you don’t even flinch when she spews all over your chest. you needed to go get new scrubs anyways, you tell him. she’s just given you an excuse. still simon feels awful about it, silently vowing to pay for them himself once lottie gets better.
after that, she calms down significantly. probably just a stomach bug, you assure him. kids are inherently nasty little beasts. she likely got it at daycare, or the park, or any number of places. you manage to feed her the medicine she previously revolted at, instructing him to call for an appointment in the morning so get she can real antibiotics, and in seemingly no time at all, she’s sound asleep on your couch with bluey playing in the background and your dog curled up on her legs.
“you’re a fuckin’ angel,” he praises, stomach still in knots, as he takes the beer you offer gratefully. you only shrug.
“you did the right thing. most men are too proud to admit when they need help, especially with shit like this. s’good that you put her first.”
he wonders how anyone could consider their ego before their child. it is unfathomable to simon, who loves lottie too much to take chances, but he doesn’t say so aloud. instead, he smiles and ignores the way it makes him flush when you applaud him.
“sorry, for buggin’ you so late. you were the first person i thought of.”
you’re the one feeling warm now, suddenly glad for the shitty lighting in your kitchen. having simon—who’s so capable, so infallible—admit that he deemed you his best bet for anything was enough, but that it had to with his daughter, the most precious thing in his life, meant far more then you can verbalize.
things have shifted since your impromptu dinner date. more tangible now. he flirts more than he teases, lets his hand linger too often to be purely friendly, and he’s since stopped discouraging your petty crush, which is considerably less shallow as of late. this, though, feels like an honest step in what you hope is the right direction. maybe. or, maybe you’re sleep-deprived, and tensions are high, and you’re just thinking about it too hard. only time will tell.
“you’ve got nothin’ to apologize for, i don’t mind. promise.”
within days, lottie is good as new, running around and terrorizing her father as she always has. just a bug, like you said. eventually, simon’s ex-wife calls back and admit that, yes, she was showing signs before coming to her father’s, but she apparently didn’t think too much of it. he asks you to sit with lottie long enough for him to tear the woman a new one, to which you readily agree. you only mourn the fact that you can’t put your own two cents in.
you can at least appreciate the sight of the vein bulging in his neck as he paces his front yard with a cigarette between his teeth.
a week later, there’s a package on your front porch, which you cannot recall ordering. new scrubs, more expensive than any you would have bought yourself, and admittedly more comfortable. you know exactly who’s responsible without having to ask.
when you leave for work the next day, simon’s mowing his lawn, with tattered, stained jeans and no shirt. he turns the mower off just long enough to whistle at you, obnoxious and unapologetic. “lookin’ good, kid,”