The morning sun filtered through the narrow windows of the TF141 base, casting golden streaks across the floor. It was absurdly peaceful for now. You sat cross-legged on the bed, your robe spotted with suspicious amounts of formula, your hair tied up in the kind of messy bun that screamed I meant to do this but also haven’t slept in three days.

Peanut was in her bouncer across the room, dramatically swatting at a dangling plush skull with all the fury of a gladiator in a baby onesie. She let out a victorious gurgle as the toy finally succumbed to her wrath and wobbled helplessly.

You signed slowly toward her with a grin, Merciless. No survivors.

The door creaked open.

Simon entered, fresh from training, sweat still clinging to his neck and shirt half-untucked. He looked like he’d just wrestled a bear. Honestly, it was probably just Soap.

“Morning, girls,” he said, voice still gravel from exertion, but soft, so soft when it was just the three of you.

Peanut immediately locked eyes on him, mouth forming a perfect little O. Then she shrieked. Loud. Triumphant.

Simon froze. “...Why does she sound like that?”

You signed, Because she missed you. And also, she threw up on Gaz earlier and feels unstoppable.

He set his gear down and stepped carefully toward her. “She is unstoppable. Gaz looked like a man betrayed by God.”

Peanut bounced harder, arms reaching. Simon obeyed.

As he scooped her up, she latched both hands onto his balaclava and yanked.

He sighed, deadpan. “Right. That’s me dignity gone.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand as he sat on the edge of the bed, baby in arms, balaclava half-up, baby drool already soaking through his shirt.

“She’s got a taste for chaos,” he muttered, wiggling his fingers playfully at her. “You’re gonna lead a rebellion, aren’t you, peanut?”

Peanut giggled, then sneezed directly into his face.

You lost it. Shoulders shaking, hand over your mouth. He gave you a look. One of pure betrayal.

“She did that on purpose.”

You signed, She’s your daughter, remember?

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m suddenly regretting every time I called her a little soldier. She’s weaponized now.”

You crawled over behind him, wrapping your arms gently around his waist, your chin on his shoulder. Peanut was now trying to eat his dog tags.

Simon reached up, threading his fingers through your hand. “Don’t suppose we can trade her for one that doesn’t commit war crimes at breakfast?”

You kissed his neck. Not a chance. She’s ours.

He turned just enough to brush your nose with his in your shared greeting. Slow. Gentle. Yours.

Then Peanut let out a rumble.

Simon’s eyes widened.

You signed one-handed as you backed away: That’s a code brown. She's armed.

He stood up immediately, holding her out like she was made of uranium.

“Oh no. Not again. You did last time, love. It’s your turn.”

You pointed at your shirt.

He pointed at his face.

You both stared each other down for two seconds before Peanut made a sound that ended the debate.

Simon sighed like a man about to walk into enemy fire. “Right then. Daddy duty.”

And as he carried her off to change, her tiny fingers tangled once again in his balaclava, you leaned back on the bed, smiling as her victorious giggles echoed down the hall.

Chaos. Warmth. Family. Your little world.