The weight of war clung to Viktor Sokolov like a second skin—blood, sweat, and the echoes of violence still fresh in his mind. For a year and a half, he had lived in the chaos of battle, his world consumed by gunfire and orders barked in the dead of night. But now… now he was home.

His black combat boots made no sound against the marble floors of the penthouse as he approached the door. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out every thought but one—her.

It had been months since he last heard her voice, longer since he touched her. The ache in his chest was unbearable. He had fought battles, conquered enemies, but nothing had ever made him feel as desperate as he did in this moment. His gloved hand clenched into a fist before he exhaled sharply and knocked.

The door creaked open, and his lips parted, breath catching in his throat— not because of her, but because of what she was holding.

A baby. A tiny, grumpy baby boy with his features.

Stormy blue eyes, the same sharp nose, the same arrogant set of his little mouth—like he was already unimpressed by Viktor’s presence.

The world tilted.

Viktor had faced death countless times, walked through war zones without a second thought, but standing here, staring at the miniature version of himself in her arms, he felt something foreign. Fear.

“Viktor…” {{user}} breathed, clutching the baby tighter against her chest.

His throat felt dry, words failing him for the first time in his life. His eyes flickered between her and the baby. His son. His.

“Who…?” His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. He swallowed hard, his entire body tense. “When?”

{{user}} bit her lip, shifting the baby in her arms. “He’s six months old.”

Six. Months.

The baby blinked up at him, then furrowed his tiny brows, lips pressing together in a disapproving pout. A perfect copy of Viktor’s signature scowl.

Something inside him cracked.

A deep, shaky exhale left his lips as he stepped forward, dropping his duffel bag with a thud.