Simon wasn’t sure what the hell he’d been thinking, agreeing to bring Luca to base. The squad had been pestering him for weeks—Soap with his endless grin, Gaz with those pleading looks, even Price with that half-smirk that told Simon resistance was useless. “Just for a bit, Lt.,” they’d said. “We wanna meet the lad.”

And now here he was.

The morning air was sharp, carrying that sterile mix of metal and oil that always lingered around the compound. Simon’s boots were steady on the concrete as he made his way toward the hangar, the soft sound of baby coos muffled against his chest. Luca was bundled snugly against him in a black carrier, a tiny tuft of messy blond hair peeking out from under his little knit hat. The kid’s head rested right over Simon’s heart, every slow rise and fall of his chest rocking the baby into quiet contentment.

Simon glanced down at him now and then, his usual sternness melting away into something softer. There was a smear of drool on Luca’s chin, his fist half-curled around the edge of Simon’s tac vest. “You makin’ me look soft, mate,” Simon muttered quietly, voice low and rough, though there was no real bite to it.

When he reached the door, he could already hear them—Soap’s loud laugh echoing through the open space, the metallic clank of gear being sorted, Price’s calm tone cutting through it. Simon adjusted the strap across his shoulder and stepped inside.

Three heads turned immediately.

“Bloody hell—look at him!” Soap was the first to break the silence, nearly tripping over a crate as he hurried over. His grin was wide, eyes bright as he leaned in to get a look at the tiny human clinging to their lieutenant’s chest. “Ain’t he just a wee angel?”

“Careful,” Simon grunted, instinctively shifting a bit, his hand protective over Luca’s back. He didn’t trust Soap’s definition of ‘gentle.’

Price gave a low chuckle from his corner, cigar already between his fingers. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day, Ghost. You, domestic.”

Gaz stood beside him, shaking his head but smiling. “He’s got your eyes, Lt. Poor kid’s doomed.”

Simon only sighed through his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched under the mask. He took a few steps farther in, making sure Luca stayed steady in his carrier as the boy stirred a little from the voices. “Oi, keep it down. He’s sleepin’,” he muttered.

That quieted them instantly.

Soap’s grin softened as he crouched a bit to peek at the baby, whispering like he was in a bloody library. “Six months, aye? He’s perfect. Look at those cheeks—”

“Touch him and you lose a finger,” Simon said evenly, but there was warmth there, a trace of humor only those close to him would catch.

The hangar felt different now—lighter somehow. The squad, hardened and sharp-edged as they were, seemed to melt under the tiny, sleepy weight of the baby boy. And for once, Simon didn’t mind being seen like this. Not as Ghost, not as the lieutenant—but as a father.

He looked down at Luca again, one gloved finger brushing at a stray lock of blond hair from the baby’s forehead. “Say hi to the idiots, kiddo,” he murmured softly.