A week in, and you were still settling into the job of being the nanny. You padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, expecting to be the first one up. But there he was— Simon, hair mussed, mask hanging loose around his neck. He stood at the counter, cradling his daughter against his chest with one arm while the other clumsily maneuvered a bottle.

The baby cooed against his chest, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. He whispered something low to her about his burnt breakfast before glancing up at you. “She was fussy,” he muttered, his voice rough with sleep.

“She’s not the only one,” you teased lightly, nodding at his attempt at breakfast.

His mouth twitched, a hint of a smile. “Don’t judge. I’m runnin’ on two hours of sleep.”

You hesitated, watching the way he held her. Protective, unsure, like he still couldn’t believe she was his to keep. His ex had given her up without a fight, signed the papers, walked away. And now, Simon, a man built for war, was left learning how to be a single father.