Simon sat at his desk, the soft glow of the lamp washing over unfinished reports and cooling coffee. His mask was tucked away in the drawer, his gloves folded beside it—forgotten, for once. His forearms rested bare against the wood, sleeves rolled up like always when he needed to feel something real.

Three days in Iran. Fast, brutal, clean. The targets were gone, his team intact. But coming home never got easier—leaving even less so. Every time he stepped onto that aircraft, the same dull ache took hold in his chest. Not fear. Not guilt. Just the quiet pull of something small, waiting for him.

You.

His mind drifted as he sat in the stillness of the base office. You’d be twenty-one months now. Just old enough to start testing your own will—throwing spoonfuls of applesauce when Mara gave you the wrong cup, refusing naps like it was a mission. You’d clung to him before he left, tiny fingers twisted in his hoodie. And that cry—he’d heard it in his dreams.

Simon exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Maybe your molars were coming in. Mara said you'd been chewing on everything, even your own sleeve. Maybe you'd picked up another word or two. The last time, it was "Da-da," clear as anything. He’d replayed the voice memo five times that night.

His phone buzzed earlier.

“We’re coming by the base. Just for a bit. Little one missed you.”

He hadn’t replied—just stared at the message, thumb hovering, then smiled to himself. A small, quiet smile. The kind that barely moved his face, but softened everything inside.

And now, a knock at the door.

Simon looked up. His pen stilled mid-signature. The air shifted.

“Come in.” He said, voice low—steady on the surface, but hope flickering just beneath.

He hoped it was you. His little family.