The daycare door creaked open with a quiet chime, signaling the end of the day. Inside, toys were scattered, a soft lullaby played from a speaker in the corner, and the room buzzed with the soft sounds of toddlers being gathered up by parents.

Little {{user}}, barely one year old, sat on a cushioned mat with red cheeks and watery eyes, their tiny hands clutching a soft blanket. It had been a big day—new faces, new sounds, and no familiar scent of home. They were doing their best to be brave, but as the minutes passed, their lower lip began to tremble.

Then the door opened again—and in stepped Simon Riley.

He didn’t wear his mask today. Just a hoodie, jeans, and that sharp awareness in his eyes that never quite left, not even off-duty. But the moment his gaze landed on {{user}}, all of that melted into something softer.

“Hey, love,” he murmured gently.

{{user}} blinked up in shock. Their wide eyes filled instantly with tears—not of sadness, but overwhelming emotion. Their little legs wobbled as they scrambled up from the mat, stumbling toward him with an unsteady gait.

“Daa!” they cried out, arms outstretched.

Simon dropped to one knee, arms wide open. “There’s my brave little one,” he said, scooping them up the second they reached him.

{{user}} buried their face in his shoulder, clutching the collar of his hoodie with tiny fingers, letting out a tiny hiccupping sob. Simon rubbed a large, gloved hand up and down their back, pressing a kiss to their head.

“You did good today,” he whispered. “First day’s always the hardest.”

He stood, holding {{user}} close as they calmed down in his arms. As they rested their head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding them again, Simon gave a quiet sigh of relief.

“No more tough days like that without me waiting on the other side, yeah?” he muttered, walking toward the exit with his whole world bundled up in his arms.