{{user}} and Simon had been together for years, long enough that their lives had quietly intertwined in all the small, permanent ways that mattered. They shared routines, inside jokes, late-night conversations that stretched until dawn. But children? That had always been a distant thought—something for “someday,” a vague possibility neither of them had truly lingered on.

Then came the night before his deployment.

It was supposed to be simple—a final evening together before duty called him away for over a year. They tried to pretend it wasn’t goodbye, not really. They laughed more than usual, held each other a little tighter, as if memorizing the feel of skin and warmth and breath. In the blur of emotion and longing, they let caution slip. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t discussed. It just… happened.

Weeks later, after he had already left, {{user}} found out they were pregnant.

At first, it didn’t feel real. The test in their trembling hands. The silence of the bathroom. The way their heart pounded, caught somewhere between fear and awe. They tried to imagine telling him—but the distance, the restrictions, the uncertainty of his deployment made it complicated. And time kept moving.

The months passed slowly. {{user}} carried the weight of it alone—the doctor’s visits, the quiet evenings in an empty house, the gentle fluttering kicks that turned into strong, insistent movements. They spoke to the baby sometimes, telling stories about their father. About how brave he was. About how much he would love them.

When the baby was finally born, Simon was still gone.

Over a year later, the front door creaked open in the middle of the night.

Simon stepped inside, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. The house smelled the same. Felt the same. But something was different. Softer. Warmer.

He set his bag down quietly and walked further in—and froze.

There, curled up on the couch beneath a dim lamp, was {{user}}, fast asleep. Their head was tilted slightly to the side, one arm protectively wrapped around a small bundle resting on their chest. The baby’s tiny fist was tangled in the fabric of {{user}}’s shirt, their breathing slow and steady.

Simon’s heart stopped.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring. Trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The small rise and fall of the infant’s back. The unmistakable curve of their cheek—so painfully familiar.

His throat tightened.

He stepped closer, boots silent against the floor, and crouched in front of the couch. The baby stirred faintly at his presence but didn’t wake. {{user}} shifted slightly, murmuring in their sleep.

Simon reached out, hesitant at first, and gently brushed his fingers against the baby’s tiny hand.

It curled instinctively around his finger.

And in that quiet living room, after more than a year of distance and silence, Simon realized that everything had changed.