The early hours of the morning had always been quiet for Simon Riley. Years ago, the silence was his shield, a blanket of calm before the day’s violence. Now it was different—still quiet, but never empty. The faint hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand, the occasional sleepy coo, the rustle of tiny limbs against the crib mattress down the hall—those were the sounds that filled the spaces he once thought would always stay hollow.

Simon stood in the doorway of his son’s room, broad shoulders leaning against the frame, mask tugged down around his neck for once. The dawn light spilled through thin curtains, casting soft gold against the wooden floor and catching on the pale curls atop his boy’s head. Luca stirred, clutching a ragged stuffed rabbit to his chest like it was the most valuable thing in the world. To Simon, it was. Because the sight of his son—small, warm, impossibly alive—was proof of everything he’d sworn he would protect.

He found himself smiling without realizing it, arms crossed as if bracing himself against the tide of tenderness that still managed to overwhelm him daily. Simon Riley, Ghost, the man who’d survived blood and fire, undone by the simple way his son’s chest rose and fell in sleep.

This morning was different, though. He’d planned something. A rarity for him, considering he lived so long by instinct and reaction. But Luca had reached that age where the world was no longer just a blur of colors and sounds—he was curious now, always reaching, grabbing, babbling nonsense that Simon swore had the shape of words hidden in it. So, tucked in the kitchen sat a stroller, brand new, still smelling of fabric and plastic. Simon had wrestled with the damned instructions the night before until nearly midnight, but he’d managed it. Today, he was going to take Luca out for the first time—not just to the yard, not just down the street. Somewhere real. Somewhere quiet, safe, with trees and birds instead of gunfire and memory.

He shifted off the doorframe and padded softly into the room. The floor creaked, but Luca didn’t startle—he never did at his father’s presence. The boy stirred, though, his tiny face scrunching as he let out a whimper that turned into a full, demanding cry.

Simon sighed softly, the kind of sigh that was more fond than tired, and scooped the boy up before the sound grew sharp. Luca fit against his chest like he’d been carved to belong there, little fists balling into the fabric of his shirt. Simon’s large hand rubbed circles across his back, grounding them both.

“Alright, little cherub,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “up and at it. Got somethin’ to show you today.”