The baby is three weeks old when you wake to the soft creak of the floorboards and the low, soothing rumble of John’s voice.

You don’t open your eyes right away. It’s barely past dawn, and for once, your daughter’s cries didn’t pull you from sleep. Someone else got there first—someone steady and dependable, with a presence that makes you feel safe even half-asleep.

John moves with that familiar deliberate care, still carrying the muscle memory of years in the field—quiet, purposeful steps—but there’s a new gentleness threaded through every motion. A softness that wasn’t there before, both in his movements and in the faint curve at his waist, a subtle dad bod beginning to form beneath one of his old t-shirts.

He leans over the crib, the warmth of him filling the room as he gathers her into his arms with a tenderness that seems at odds with the man the world knows—but feels entirely right to you.

“There we go, love,” John murmurs, rocking her slowly against his chest, his beard brushing the crown of her head.

Her tiny hand clutches at the fabric over his stomach, nestled comfortably against the warmth and new softness that’s crept in with fatherhood. If he notices, he gives no sign of caring—just holds her like it’s the only thing that matters.

He kisses her head absently, eyes heavy with sleep but filled with fierce affection. His voice is low and rough, but warm. “Just a bit of wind, yeah? We’ll sort you out.”