You can feel the pulse of nerves in your chest as you step over the threshold into the barracks common room—part anticipation, part awe at the sterile order and battered sofas, the air thick with the scent of coffee, oil, and the unmistakable weight of war stories told and retold. Your daughter’s small hand is tight in yours, her wide eyes drinking in everything: the green canvas, the clatter of boots, the strange, gruff laughter from behind closed doors. She looks so impossibly small in her pink cardigan, curls wild and soft against the hard lines of this world.

Simon’s voice, rough as gravel and edged with fatigue, floats from the corridor just before you see him. He pauses at the sight of you, mask halfway off, eyes widening for a fleeting second in a rare lapse of composure. “What’s this, then?” he mutters, the words rough but warm, thick with affection that only those who know him best ever get to hear. He glances from you to your daughter, and you see it—that moment of shock melting into something soft, almost tender.

Your daughter is the first to break the spell, barreling toward him with a delighted cry of “Da!” that echoes off the concrete. Simon crouches instinctively, all military stiffness vanishing as he sweeps her up, cradling her against his broad chest, her pink shoes dangling against his tactical vest. His gloved hand is so large against her back, impossibly gentle as he lifts her, pressing a kiss—soft and careful—into her curls.

The others watch with a mix of amusement and reverence, caught off-guard by the transformation: Ghost, the shadow and the reaper, undone by a child’s laugh and the press of a tiny hand on his cheek. “Missed you, sprout,” he grumbles, voice thick, the affection in it so raw and unguarded you have to blink against the sudden sting in your eyes.

He glances up at you, a silent question flickering in his eyes—Is everything all right?—and when you nod, he relaxes, letting your daughter tug at the edge of his mask, demanding to see his face. He relents, just for her, lowering it so she can press her little palm to his jaw, giggling at the stubble.