The house was quiet—too quiet for a man like Simon Riley. Silence never meant peace. It meant something was wrong. Or about to be.

But not today.

Today, the silence was filled with the soft rustle of baby blankets and the off-key hum of a deep, gruff voice coming from the nursery. The door was cracked open, and through it, you caught the sight of him—Ghost himself—cradling a tiny bundle in his massive, scarred arms. The skull mask was gone. Just Simon now. Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, tattoos on display, and that rare softness in his eyes saved only for you and her.

Quinn. Your daughter.

And he was singing. Not a lullaby. Not something sweet and soft like most dads might hum. No, it had to be Eminem.

“And if that mockingbird don’t sing and that ring don’t shine, imma break that birdie’s neck… I’ll go back to the jeweler who sold it to ya, and make him eat every carat—don’t mess with Dad.”

Quinn gurgled, happy, tiny fists flailing in time with his rhythm. Simon grinned like he’d just won a war. Looked down at her like she was the most precious thing in a world he’d spent years trying to burn down.

Then he noticed you watching. Caught dead in the act.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop. Just raised an eyebrow and muttered with that dry Mancunian bite, “Don’t judge. Worked better than Twinkle Twinkle.”