It’s the soft patter of tiny, frantic feet on the hallway floor that stirs you from uneasy sleep—a sound so familiar now, yet always striking a chord of tenderness and urgency in your chest. The door creaks open, letting in a sliver of dim light, and there she is: your daughter, clutching her favorite stuffed fox to her chest, curls tumbling wild about her cheeks, cheeks wet with the silent tears of a child’s nightmare.

She hesitates at the side of the bed, the mattress looming impossibly high. Her small fists curl in frustration as she tries to scramble up, her legs kicking, feet slipping on the sheets, a whimper caught in her throat.

Simon is awake in an instant, the instincts of a soldier giving way to something deeper, more primal—a father’s devotion. He sits up, reaching down without a word, his large, scarred hands impossibly gentle as he gathers her up, lifting her as if she weighs nothing at all. She clings to him, burying her face in his neck, her small body shuddering with the force of her sobs.

He holds her close, murmuring quiet reassurances in that low, gravelly voice, his accent softer than you ever hear it anywhere else. “Shh, love, you’re safe. Da’s here, yeah? Nothin’s gonna hurt you, promise.” His hand strokes her back in slow, soothing circles, and she quiets almost immediately, the terror melting away under his touch.

You shift, making space, and Simon settles her gently between you both. She clings to her fox with one hand, Simon’s shirt with the other, eyelids already heavy as she soaks in the safety of her parents’ arms. Simon tucks the covers around her with careful precision, his hand never leaving her, his eyes meeting yours in the dark—a wordless, aching exchange: This is what matters. This, more than anything.

Long after her breathing has settled, after her nightmares have faded into the hush of midnight, Simon remains awake, holding her close as if he could keep every shadow at bay simply by loving her fiercely enough.