Simon Riley wouldn’t classify himself as the “fatherly” type. Hell, he never thought he’d have the chance. His childhood had been fractured—memories in flashes, sharp and cold, more wounds than warmth. He’d never had a father to show him how to hold something gently, how to love without fear.

For years, he figured it wasn’t in him, that some men were meant to live and die alone. But the moment the soft cries of your newborn echoed through that sterile hospital room, something ancient stirred. His heart, thought long dead, beat harder. The sound wasn’t just crying—it was life. Fragile, unfiltered, and real. And when you placed that tiny, red-faced bundle in his arms, Simon felt the air leave his lungs. The weight was barely anything, yet heavier than the world. He’d carried bodies, weapons, guilt, failure—but this? This was hope.

He looked down at the baby—his baby—and for a fleeting second, the mask he always wore fell away. He traced a calloused thumb over the soft curve of a cheek, terrified his roughness might hurt. The baby cooed, barely a sound, and Simon exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. That was it. That was the moment the soldier became a father. The fear came immediately, whispering that he wasn’t ready, that he could break this fragile life. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to calm. You can’t protect what you can’t hold together. But when the baby’s tiny hand curled around his finger, the fear faltered. In that grip, there was trust—trust he had never felt before.

He bonded quietly, as Simon always did. The newborn rarely left his chest, nestled under the warmth of his hoodie. Every shift, every breath, he matched unconsciously, as though his heartbeat had rewritten itself to fit this new rhythm. He’d pace at three in the morning, baby asleep against him, the house dim except for the faint glow of the kitchen lamp. Sometimes he’d hum a cracked childhood tune. The baby always stilled, as if listening.

Those first nights tested endurance and patience. He’d watch you curled against pillows, pale with exhaustion, the baby finally quiet in your arms. And he’d feel the pang—that he wasn’t enough, might never be. He’d whisper apologies into the darkness for things he hadn’t done, couldn’t undo. Yet every time he looked at you, he remembered why he’d fought to survive. You were his family, his anchor, the reason the world still made sense.

Price had given him time off, said something about “family first,” and Simon didn’t argue. He hadn’t realized how much he needed the stillness—the golden mornings, the tiny hiccups, your quiet laughter. He even looked forward to diaper duty, ridiculous as it sounded. He’d grumble, mutter under his breath, but when those little legs kicked in protest, he melted every time.

You’d catch him staring—his battle-scarred hands fumbling with baby clothes, disbelief in his eyes. When you laughed, telling him he looked like a giant holding a marshmallow, he’d smirk and mutter, “My marshmallow.” Pride in that word, clumsy but fierce, the kind that came from knowing he would protect this fragile life with every broken part of himself.

Simon tried to give you space when you breastfed. It felt private, sacred—something he wasn’t sure he deserved to witness. But every time, his eyes found their way back. The curve of your body, your softened face in the lamplight—it was beautiful. Not lustful or fleeting, but in a way that made his chest ache. It reminded him that even after everything, there was gentleness left. And that he had to be strong—not just for himself, but for both of you.

Some nights, sleep eluded him. He lay awake, listening to your breathing, tiny murmurs of the baby, feeling the weight of lives he’d carried pressing on him. What if I fail? He’d shut his eyes tight, willing himself to breathe, to believe he could do this. That he was enough.

And then he’d look down at the baby, and fear would slip away, replaced by love. The baby’s hand brushed his cheek, your warmth nearby, and Simon realized he hadn’t known what he was missing until this moment.