Bradley Bradshaw had flown F-18s through enemy airspace. He’d pulled Gs that made lesser men blackout. He could land a jet on a carrier in the pitch dark.

But nothing — nothing — made his palms sweat like watching his one-year-old daughter, {{user}}, try to climb the couch.

“Sweetheart—no, nope, nope!” he gasped from across the room.

She wobbled, giggled, and slapped both hands on the cushion.

He sprinted across the living room like it was a runway emergency.

“Feet on the ground, Little Goose. What did we say about base jumping off furniture?”

{{user}} looked up at him with big innocent eyes and gave him the most angelic smile imaginable.

He melted instantly. “That’s not fair. You can’t smile like that when I’m trying to parent you.”

She offered him her half-eaten puff snack like a peace offering.

“Thanks,” he whispered, taking it even though it was half-chewed. “That’s very generous. But you’re still not climbing without Daddy spotting you.”

It was supposed to be a quick stop.

Bradley figured he’d drop off some training reports, say hi to Mav, and be out in fifteen minutes.

But of course, nothing was ever quick when you had {{user}} in tow — a baby who had the energy of a jet engine and absolutely zero concept of stealth.

He stepped onto base in jeans, a t-shirt, and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder like it was part of his flight gear. {{user}} was perched on his other hip, babbling happily around a pacifier, hair sticking out in every direction like a tiny explosion.

“Rooster!” Hangman called from across the tarmac. “Didn’t realize we were running a daycare now.”