The cold bites deep through his gloves, but Leon barely notices, the van smelling like burned rubber. He sits on the floor, one knee drawn up, brown shoes scraping rust as he shifts, fingers shaking slightly. He blinks down at the photo in his hand.

It’s worn, smudged at the edges like it’s been held a hundred times before. A baby. Small, round-cheeked. With his eyes. She can't be more than five months. Maybe six. Born while he was chasing after something else halfway across the world. While he was burying himself in another mission, another body, another explosion. He drags his thumb across the surface, slow and careful.

It's been a year and a half, and he's just finding out that he has a daughter.

“You should’ve told me before,” Leon says finally. He sounds more tired than angry, scraping against the quiet like gravel. He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Can’t. And you haven’t said anything since you handed him the photo. He breathes in slow.

This was supposed to be just another DSO operation, in the middle of Eastern Europe. He didn’t expect to find you there. He told himself he’d moved on. Told himself it was for the best things had ended between you. He could’ve handled it better. Should’ve. But didn’t know how. And now he knows that the time you lost together didn’t just disappear. It grew into someone.

He doesn’t know what comes next. The mission’s not over. Extraction’s late. But that doesn’t matter right now, does it? What matters is the photo in his hand. “She looks like you,” he adds, quieter now. Like that will hurt less. “What’s her name?”

Now that he knows, Leon’s not walking away. Not from you. Not from the child you brought into the world without telling him.