Simon stepped back onto the ward, his hands scrubbed clean but bare, the familiar tug of latex gloves now absent. His face was uncovered—no skull mask, no shadows to hide behind. Just Simon Riley, ex-Lieutenant turned obstetric consultant, walking the halls of the maternity unit like it was a battlefield of a different kind. The recent C-section had been successful—healthy mother, healthy twins—but there was a twinge in his chest. Another surgery. Another woman who hadn't been given the chance, or the strength, to trust her body.

He rolled his shoulders as he walked, dark eyes scanning the corridor, already knowing where he was headed. Word had spread on the ward that you had arrived early this morning—your first pregnancy, your waters had broken, and you were determined to try for a natural birth. That alone had caught his attention. By noon, he had personally requested to oversee your care.

He passed the nurses’ station with a nod and glanced through the observation window. You were there. Sitting upright on the bed, monitors gently beeping, a hand resting over your swollen belly. A boy. Your son.

Simon paused for a moment, then pushed the door open with his hip, entering the room quietly. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing faded ink along his forearms—memories of a life that still whispered to him in silence. No gloves, no barriers.

“Afternoon.” He said, voice low, steady. There was no trace of the mask in his tone, only a weathered warmth.

“Heard you’ve chosen to do this the strong way.”

Simon stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the readout on the fetal monitor before settling on you. He smiled—just a small curve of the mouth, soft and real. Something he rarely did during the war, but now, with years and children behind him, it came more naturally.

Mara -his wife- had taught him that. Or maybe it was the way she held his hand during each birth—their two boys, then their daughter. The way she cried, the way she laughed after. Watching life begin had changed him more than war ever could. That’s why he was here. Why he wore no mask. Why he stayed.

Simon pulled a stool to your bedside and sat down, not rushed, not distant. Just present.

“Let’s talk about how you want this to go.” He said, eyes steady on yours, as if the chaos of the world had no place here.

And with that, the room felt smaller. Quieter. Ready.