You always wondered how the hell it came to this.

One night. One reckless night over a year ago—his hands on your hips, mouth hot against your skin, the weight of war still in his eyes even when he moaned your name. You thought it would be just that. One night, no strings.

But then came Ava.

Now, there’s a crib in your bedroom, a wedding ring on your finger, and a six-foot-four special forces operator in your kitchen who still sleeps with a pistol under the mattress and wakes up in a cold sweat more often than not.

Simon Riley—Ghost—your husband.

He’s barefoot, shirtless, broad shoulders carrying the weight of more than just the war. Hair still damp from the shower, faded scars tracing maps across his back. The mask’s off. It always is at home. Just Simon, now. Just the man.

Ava lets out a small whimper from the baby monitor.

Simon freezes, half-sipping his coffee. Then, without a word, he moves—quiet, precise. The soldier never leaves him. But when he comes back downstairs, baby girl tucked in one arm like she’s made of glass, you swear you see it—something softer in him.

“She takes after you,” he mutters, rocking her slightly. “Fussy as hell.” Then, a pause. His eyes meet yours. That same quiet storm in them. “…Still can’t believe you married me,” he says with a snort. “Madwoman.”