The rookies were dragging their feet again. Simon could see it in the way their shoulders slumped and rifles tilted. The heat didn’t help, nor did the fact that most of them had no idea what discipline meant. He barked orders across the range, voice sharp and unforgiving, the sun baking into the concrete beneath his boots.

This wasn’t supposed to go on this long. He’d told you it would be three days—four tops. But more green kids kept arriving, and command kept him planted here.

And you… you hadn’t said much since the night before. Claimed you were a little dizzy, probably from the heat. Maybe a cold. Nothing serious—you didn’t want to worry him. You never did.

But when his phone buzzed in his pocket—mid-drill, mid-yell—he glanced down and saw your name. You never called while he was training. Not unless something was wrong.

His chest tightened. Without a word, Simon turned from formation and slipped into a side hall near the armory. He answered the call, voice already low with concern.

But it wasn’t your voice that greeted him.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Small and familiar. Your daughter, Ellie.

Her voice was quieter than usual—like she knew she was doing something she shouldn’t, but also like she needed him. Desperately.

“Mummy’s sick,” she said softly. “She’s really hot and sleepy. I brought her water, but she dropped it. She said she’s okay but… she doesn’t look okay.”

Simon didn’t speak right away. He could hear the fear in her voice—the kind no child should have to carry. The flu? Heatstroke? Worse? You’d said it was nothing.

He crouched in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, and told Ellie to stay close to Mum. Wet cloth. Locked door. Wait for him. Then—he moved.

Two hours later, his truck skidded into the driveway. The keys hit the floor inside the front door as he strode through the house.

“Ellie?” he called, already halfway up the stairs.

She peeked around the corner—tear-streaked cheeks, blanket clutched tight. “Mommy is in bed, Daddy… she’s still sleeping.”

He brushed a hand over her hair and entered the bedroom without hesitation.

You were curled on your side, skin pale and sweat-damp. Breathing shallow. A half-folded towel sat on the bedside table, untouched water glass beside it. Simon crossed the room in seconds, dropped to his knees beside the bed.

“Hey, love,” he murmured, voice rough, fingers brushing your forehead. Burning.

His mask was already off, hands moving—checking, comforting, grounding himself in the fact that you were still there.

You didn’t wake. Not when he whispered your name. Not even when he gently shook your shoulder.

Your brow twitched, but your eyes stayed closed. Your breathing was shallow, each inhale catching like your lungs had to fight for it. This wasn’t just the flu. Or heatstroke.

Your skin was too red, lips too pale, fingers too cold. You were burning from the inside out. And your body seemed to be struggling to keep up.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pushing the covers down, checking your pulse. Weak. Fast.

Ellie sat beside him, hugging her blanket. “She was talkin’ to me this morning,” she said quietly. “But she kept forgetting stuff. She dropped her juice twice.”

Simon blinked, heart seizing in his chest.

“She said she was fine, Daddy. She always says she’s fine.”

He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t be mad at Ellie—she was four, and she’d done everything she could. But this… this was worse than he thought.

He grabbed his phone, fingers already tapping out a message to the on-base medic he trusted most. Someone was going to help.

“You should’ve told me, love,” he murmured. “Should’ve called sooner. I’d have dropped everything. I did drop everything.”

You shifted weakly, a low groan escaping your lips. Your head tilted slightly, breath ragged.

“Simon…” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

His shoulders sagged with relief, a quiet exhale leaving him as he leaned closer.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said softly.