It was 2:30 in the morning, and Simon felt like death warmed over. The flu had him in its grip—his head pounded, his throat burned, and every muscle ached. But with {{user}} away on deployment with some of the 141, he had no choice but to power through. Their son, Alex, was inconsolable, his tiny wails piercing through the quiet house.

Simon cradled the newborn in his arms, swaying gently as he paced the nursery, exhaustion weighing on him like a lead blanket. He fought to keep his sniffles and coughs at bay, not wanting to startle the already fussy baby. The rhythmic motion did little to soothe either of them; Alex kept crying, and Simon's fevered head throbbed in protest.

Then, a sound—soft, but unmistakable. The slow creak of the front door opening downstairs.

His body tensed for a moment until a familiar voice cut through the haze of fatigue.

"Where's my baby?"

The words were warm, full of longing. Footsteps ascended the stairs, and Simon turned toward the nursery doorway just as {{user}} stepped into the soft glow of the room. His shoulders sagged with relief. She was home.

"Right here," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion and gently teasing as he motioned to himself once he set Alex down in the crib and walked over to her.