The living room smells faintly like clean laundry and pine. Christmas lights line the windows, dimmed just enough to keep the room calm, and the tree stands off to the side, only half decorated because you ran out of energy halfway through. A Christmas movie plays quietly, more for comfort than attention.

You’re stretched out on the couch with your baby settled on your chest, their tiny body warm and heavy through your sweater. One of your hands cups their back, the other tucked beneath their legs to keep them steady. They’re out cold—finally—and you barely move, scared even breathing too deep might wake them.

It’s been like this all week.

Simon’s first mission since the baby was born.

You’d told him you were fine with it. You meant it, too. But the house felt different without him—too quiet, too still. Nights dragged on, and mornings came too fast. You managed, because you had to, but it didn’t stop you from missing him constantly.

Headlights suddenly flash across the wall.

You stiffen.

A car pulls into the driveway. Gravel crunches. An engine shuts off. For a second, you just sit there, heart racing, before a familiar car door closes outside.

The front door opens slowly, like whoever’s coming in is trying not to make a sound. Heavy boots step inside. A bag hits the floor with a soft thump. The door shuts again, keeping the cold out.

Simon appears in the doorway.

He looks exhausted—jaw tight, shoulders tense—but the moment his eyes land on you, something in him eases. His gaze drops to the baby immediately, and his mouth presses into a thin line like he’s holding back a dozen thoughts at once.

He walks over and kneels in front of the couch, careful, quiet. One hand reaches out and lightly touches the baby’s sleeve. The other comes up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he needs to check that you’re really there.

“Hey,” he says.

You smile, tired but relieved. “You’re home.”

“Yeah.” He exhales. “Did I miss anything?”

You huff quietly. “They slept. Ate. Screamed once around three.”

“Sounds about right.”

He glances down again. “They asleep for real, or… fake asleep?”

“Real,” you whisper. “Don’t jinx it.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle. “Wouldn’t dare.”

For a second, he just stays there, watching. “Didn’t like being gone,” he admits. “First time leaving since… all this.” He nods toward the baby. “Didn’t sit right.”

You shrug gently. “We were okay. But it sucked.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I kept checking the time. Like that was gonna make it go faster.”

You smile. “You’re here now.”

“Mm.” His thumb presses into your cheek. “Not planning on going anywhere for a while.”

The baby shifts, letting out a soft noise, and Simon freezes instantly. “Okay—nope,” he murmurs. “I’m good. I won’t touch.”

You laugh silently.

Simon stays kneeling there for another second, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast he’ll ruin the moment. His hand lingers on your cheek, thumb warm, grounding. The baby lets out a tiny sigh and settles again, and only then does he relax.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Crisis avoided.”