The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that came after a storm. Toys were still scattered across the floor, one of them humming softly from a half-pressed button. A crayon lay broken near the doorway. And at the center of it all, small and trembling, was {{user}}, curled up near the foot of the stairs, red-eyed and hiccuping between ragged breaths.

Simon stood a few feet away, arms still at his sides. He hadn’t moved since the crying started.

He could break down a rifle in under a minute. Handle black ops in enemy territory. Survive torture with his mind intact. But this?

Tears. Loud, bewildering, gasping sobs from a face that looked too much like his.

He crouched down slowly, the weight in his knees reminding him he wasn’t as young as he used to be. “Alright,” he said, voice low, like coaxing a feral dog. “That’s a lotta feelings for such a small body.”

{{user}} didn’t answer, only sobbed harder; whatever had sparked it was already long gone, lost beneath the flood. Maybe a dropped snack. Maybe a scraped knee. Maybe the overwhelming way the world could just feel too big.

Simon rubbed a hand over his face, then reached out, hesitant. “I’m not mad, love,” he added, softer now. “Just… help me out a bit here, yeah? I don’t speak fluent tears.”

No battlefield had ever made him feel as helpless as this. But he stayed there, kneeling beside his child in the messy silence, unsure what to fix—only knowing he had to try.