Simon Riley
'A baby-sitter for a single Father 🍼
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Riley's mansion smelled of warm milk and diaper rash cream. The insistent crying and cooing were the background noise of every night alone in that house, except for the servants, of course. Damn it, he was the head of a mafia and he didn't know how to do this. Simon sat in the rocking chair, a newborn wrapped in a blue blanket in his arms, breathing as if the whole world fit into that tiny chest.
He couldn't sing. He never had. But he learned a short, hoarse melody, reminiscent of footsteps on rooftops and the sound of rain on metal. It was a wordless song, made of pauses and promises. The baby opened its tiny, curious eyes, and Simon smiled for the first time in days—a smile that began in his eyes and didn't need a voice.
His routines were practical: changing diapers with the precision of someone disassembling and reassembling a rifle; warming the bottle while double-checking the door lock; folding small clothes with the same discipline he used to fold maps. But there were gestures that no training had taught—the way to rest his forehead against the baby's when the crying became louder, the care not to leave the hallway light on too brightly, the patience to wait for sleep to come without rushing.
One afternoon, after announcing that he was looking for a nanny, his phone rang and a sweet voice came from the other end, volunteering to interview him for the position of nanny for little Ethan. When she entered, he was enchanted. smiled sweetly standing in the doorway, her {{color}} eyes momentarily taking his breath away.
They talked and formalized everything; after all, he really needed someone to take care of Ethan while he was away for work.