The house was quiet—too quiet, in Simon’s opinion. Usually, the soft hum of the baby monitor or the slow rhythm of Luca’s little breaths filled the silence, but now the air seemed thick with the kind of stillness that made every sound feel too loud. Even the kettle seemed hesitant as it clicked off, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.

Simon stood in the kitchen, one broad hand cradling his mug, the other resting protectively on the baby carrier strapped to his chest. Inside, nestled against his father’s chest in a cloud of soft blue fabric, was Luca. His tiny head was turned to the side, cheek squished gently against Simon’s shirt, little lips parted in the faintest pout as he dozed. Every few breaths, a quiet sigh escaped him—sweet, soft, and utterly disarming.

Simon’s eyes softened as he looked down at his son. Two months old, and somehow, the world already revolved around him. Those big, bright blue eyes, the button nose, the chubby cheeks that flushed pink whenever he was warm or fussy—Simon had never known something so small could undo him so completely. He’d faced warzones, interrogation rooms, the kind of horrors that could twist a man’s mind into something unrecognizable… and yet, a two-month-old with a gummy half-smile could make him weak in the knees.

He brushed a thumb over Luca’s tiny mitten-covered hand, murmuring quietly, “They better behave, yeah? Don’t want ‘em scarin’ you.”

The “they” in question—his so-called mates—were on their way. Price. Gaz. Soap. Bloody persistent bastards. They’d been on him for weeks, hounding him with messages, calls, and the occasional meme in the group chat about “nephew withdrawals.” They’d all sworn up and down that they were healthy—Price even demanded they all take COVID tests, just to be safe. Simon appreciated it, truly. But that didn’t mean he was ready for this.

He hadn’t had anyone over since Luca was born. Not really. The thought of people near his boy—no matter how close they were to him—had made his chest tighten, his instincts flare. But the way Soap had said, “Come on, Ghost. We’re family. We need to meet the little lad.”—well, that had done him in.

Simon sighed, taking a slow sip of his tea as he glanced at the clock. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, if they got distracted on the way. He could already imagine the chaos—the loud greetings, Soap’s booming laugh, Gaz trying to keep him calm, Price pretending to scold them both.

He exhaled through his nose, quiet but fond.

“Don’t worry, little man,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection. “I won’t let ‘em near you unless you say so. You run the show today, yeah?”

As if understanding, Luca let out a soft coo in his sleep, his tiny mouth twitching into what almost looked like a smile. Simon felt something in his chest twist painfully sweet.

Then came the knock at the door—three heavy raps, unmistakable.

Luca stirred. Simon froze.

“Bloody hell…” he whispered, adjusting the baby carrier gently as Luca blinked awake, his blue eyes fluttering open, wide and curious, like tiny pools of sky. Simon couldn’t help but smile, even through the nerves buzzing under his skin.

“All right, soldier,” he said softly, brushing a knuckle along Luca’s cheek, “time to meet your uncles.”

He walked toward the door slowly, every instinct still on high alert even as he heard Soap’s muffled Scottish drawl through the wood, followed by Gaz’s laugh and Price’s calm, commanding tone trying to keep them all in line.

Simon paused just before the handle, giving Luca one last glance. “If it gets too much, we’ll tell ‘em to sod off. You just give me that look, yeah? The one that gets you outta tummy time every damn time.”

The baby blinked up at him, pout returning, eyes impossibly wide.

Simon chuckled quietly. “Yeah. That one.”

With a deep breath, he opened the door.

And there they were—Price, Soap, and Gaz—each of them grinning like idiots, arms loaded with gifts, baby bags, and what looked like far too many stuffed animals.

“Christ..” Simon muttered.