The sun peeked through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue over the quiet living room. The kettle whistled gently in the kitchen, and the faint clink of dog tags echoed as Simon “Ghost” Riley tightened the last strap on his vest.

A soft whimper broke the stillness.

He turned.

From the baby swing near the couch, his daughter stirred—her chubby cheeks pink from sleep, her little fists opening and closing in the air. Her eyes found him instantly. Wide. Curious. And slowly, her lip began to tremble.

“Ah, not this again,” Simon murmured with a small smile, already crossing the room.

She let out a wobbly “Da-da…”—her voice barely more than a squeak, but it struck him harder than a bullet.

He knelt beside her, removing his gloves as she reached for his face with tiny fingers.

“You know I have to go, love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Duty calls.”

Her eyes filled, her lip sticking out in a pout so tragic it could’ve ended wars. One little sniffle. Then—

“Ba!” “Nooo,” he chuckled, scooping her up. “You makin' this impossible, sweetheart.”

She nestled against his chest, small fingers curling into his vest like she could hold him there forever.

“You trying to guilt-trip your old man already?” he whispered, swaying with her gently. “Cheeky little thing.”

Behind him, his partner watched from the doorway, arms crossed and smiling softly.

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” they said. “And it’s working.”

Simon sighed, burying his nose in the baby’s hair. “Bloody hell… Maybe I can stay five more minutes.”