The house was quiet in the way only early mornings could be—no missions, no alarms, just soft light and softer breaths. Pale sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains in the nursery, casting a golden hue over the room.

The air smelled like warm linen and the faintest trace of baby powder, with the distant hum of the kettle finishing in the kitchen.

Simon stood by the crib, broad frame relaxed, his usual armor of silence somehow softer in the morning glow. His mask was pulled up just enough to show the curve of his lips and a few days of stubble.

In his arms, your baby boy rested, cheek pressed against his father’s chest, tiny fingers curled around the edge of his shirt. One of the dog tags had slipped from under the fabric, and the baby’s small hand had caught it—clutching it like it was his lifeline.

Simon rocked slowly, almost absentmindedly, the quiet weight of fatherhood settling in his arms. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His movements were tender.

Measured. Intentional. Every now and then, he would press a kiss to the baby’s head or shift his weight so the little one stayed tucked against him perfectly.

You stood in the doorway, watching them. Your heart swelled at the sight—this towering man, so often shrouded in shadows and secrets, now entirely undone by a sleeping child.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, and in it, there was something raw. Peaceful. Honest. He nodded once, slow. The softest invitation.

You crossed the room and slid beside him, his free arm pulling you gently to his side. Together, the three of you stood in silence, the baby nestled safe between you.

Your hand found Simon’s, both resting against the small of your son's back. Warm. Solid. Home.

Simon leaned in, brushing his temple to yours, eyes closed for a moment as if to breathe it all in.

“…He’s got your eyes,” he murmured, barely louder than a thought.

And then he was quiet again—just a man holding everything he’s ever loved, finally safe.