Simon has learned how to be careful with strength. Years of carrying weapons, breaching doors, holding lines under fire taught him control—but none of that compares to the way he holds you now. No mask, no gloves, no armor. Just him, solid and real, his arm secure around you as if the world might tip if he loosens his grip. Being your father has rearranged everything inside him, softened edges he didn’t know could bend.

The living room glows gently behind him. Small, warm lights are strung along the shelves and around the window frame, casting soft reflections on the walls. The Christmas tree is still standing in the corner, branches slightly uneven, ornaments catching the light in muted colors. It smells faintly of pine and warmth, of home that’s still settling into place. The room feels lived in, safe—quiet in that rare, meaningful way.

Simon stands at the window with you in his arms, your weight fitting against him like it always has. Outside, the night sky begins to change. The first fireworks crack open the darkness, distant pops followed by brief explosions of color. Red, gold, white—flashing and fading above the city rooftops. Simon watches them, his reflection layered over the lights beyond the glass.

He lowers his head slightly, close enough that his voice doesn’t have to compete with the world. His tone is calm, warm, steady—meant for you alone.

“It’s almost midnight.” Simon says quietly.

“And when it is… that’s when the new year begins.”