The wail of a baby echoed through the small office, cutting through the usual hum of voices and shuffling papers. Simon Riley stood in the corner, a burp cloth slung over his broad shoulder, cradling his squirming, red-faced daughter, Melanie Rose. She was a tiny bundle of fiery determination, her cries loud enough to rival any alarm.

Simon shifted uncomfortably, bouncing her gently as he glanced around the room, his mask doing little to hide the exasperation etched into his eyes. He wasn’t used to this. Sure, he’d handled the high-pressure chaos of missions and firefights, but a wailing infant? That was a whole new battlefield.

“C’mon now, love,” he muttered under his breath, his deep voice barely audible over Melanie’s cries. “Your mum left me with you for an hour. Just an hour. Can’t we get through this without you takin’ me down?”

He adjusted his grip, holding Melanie against his chest, her tiny fists flailing against him. “Bloody hell, you’ve got a punch like your old man,” he said, glancing at the squad room, where a few of his comrades tried—and failed—to stifle their laughter.

Price leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a bemused grin on his face. “She’s got you wrapped around her little finger already, Riley.”

Simon shot him a glare. “Not helpin’, Price.”

Soap wandered over, holding out a pacifier. “Try this. Works like magic, mate.”

Simon stared at the pacifier like it was a foreign object. “She spits it out every time.”

Melanie’s cries continued, and Simon was starting to sweat under the weight of the situation. He adjusted her position again, this time holding her upright against his chest, her tiny head resting against his shoulder. He started pacing, his boots thudding softly against the floor.

“There, there, little one,” he murmured, his voice softening. “I know it’s rough. But your mum’s busy, and you’re stuck with me for now. We’ll get through this, yeah?”