The parking lot was hot, the sun beating down as you stood beside the car, rocking baby Michael gently in your arms while Simon fought for his life against the stroller.

It should have been simple. Press a button, unfold, lock it into place. Easy.

But no.

“Why—won’t—you—OPEN?!” Simon gritted out, yanking at the stubborn contraption with the same intensity he probably used to break down doors in the field.

People walking past started throwing glances his way—some amused, some outright judgmental. After all, here was a massive, combat-trained man, muscles straining, veins nearly popping, losing a battle to baby gear.

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh as Michael blinked up at his father, entirely unbothered.

Simon gave it one last, aggressive pull—

SNAP!

The stroller suddenly unfolded with violent force, nearly taking his fingers with it.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell!” He jerked his hands back, shaking them out, glaring down at the now perfectly functional stroller as if it had personally insulted him.

A passing couple snickered, and an older woman whispered something to her friend, probably something about how men these days aren’t as strong as they used to be.

Simon turned his head, still flexing his fingers. “Yeah, yeah, keep fuckin’ walkin’,” he muttered under his breath.

You lost it. You laughed so hard your shoulders shook, and Michael let out a happy little coo, enjoying the show.

Simon shot you a glare. “Oh, you think this is funny, do you?”