John Price’s house was silent when his phone buzzed on the counter—too silent for a man who used to fall asleep to giggles, pattering feet, and the soft breathing of his family. He almost didn’t check it, expecting another work message. But when he saw the caller ID, his pulse stopped.
Marie.
Late-night calls from her had a way of cutting him open. They always meant something was wrong with {{user}}.
He answered before the first ring finished. Marie’s voice was thin and trembling: {{user}} had woken from a nightmare—one of those awful ones where she sobbed so hard she couldn’t breathe. She kept asking for him. She wouldn’t calm down.
John didn’t even grab a jacket. He was out the door, boots barely laced, keys clenched in his fist.
The drive to the old house—their house—felt longer than any deployment flight. Every streetlight seemed to judge him. He’d promised he’d be there for bedtime. He’d promised he wouldn’t miss the little things anymore. He’d promised, and then he’d broken every promise the way he always did.
By the time he pulled in, he was half-running. Marie opened the door instantly, relief and exhaustion mixing on her face. “She’s still crying,” she whispered.
He nodded but didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Because he could hear it—his little girl’s sobs drifting down the hallway like a wound calling his name.
He took the stairs two at a time.
{{user}}’s room looked just like he left it months ago—soft nightlight glowing, stuffed animals scattered, glow-in-the-dark stars he’d put up when she was three still shining on the ceiling. She was curled in the blankets, shaking, little fists rubbing her face.
When she saw him, everything inside her broke open.
“Daddy!” she sobbed, throwing herself into his arms so hard he had to steady his feet.
He caught her instantly, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world. She clung to him with desperate strength, burying her tear-soaked face into his neck. Her tiny body trembled like she was afraid he might vanish if she loosened her grip.
“Oh, sweetheart…” His voice cracked despite him trying to keep it steady. He cupped the back of her head, thumb brushing through her hair. “Daddy’s here now. I’ve got you.”
She hiccuped against him, crying too hard to speak. He swayed gently, instinct taking over—the same instinct he’d used when she was a toddler with night terrors, the instinct he’d crafted from a lifetime of protecting people less fragile than this tiny girl who owned his entire heart.
It took minutes—long, painful minutes—before her breathing evened. She pulled back, eyes red and watery. “Monsters… and you weren’t here,” she whispered, voice tiny and shaking.
The words punched through him. Clean. Deep. No armor in the world could stop that hit.
He kissed her forehead, holding her closer. “I know, bug. I’m sorry.” Sorry for missing so much. Sorry for not being the dad she deserved. Sorry for every night he wasn’t the one tucking her in.
She sniffed, curling into his chest again. “Sleep with me?”
He blinked, startled. Her bed was small. Cramped. He’d barely fit. But she looked up at him with that hopeful, frightened expression he recognized too well—the same look Marie used to have when he’d walk out the door for another long mission. The look of someone scared they’d be left behind.
And John couldn’t give her another reason to feel that.
“’Course I will,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Daddy’ll stay right here.”
Marie lingered in the doorway only long enough to make sure {{user}} had calmed. She gave a quiet nod—gentle but distant—before slipping away, leaving them alone in the soft glow of the nightlight.
John eased himself into the tiny bed, lying on his side so he wouldn’t take up too much room. {{user}} immediately curled against him, legs tucked into his chest, small hand gripping the front of his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear again.
The bed was cramped, his spine already protesting, but he didn’t care. Not when she relaxed against him for the first time all night. Not when her breathing finally smoothed out.