The clock ticked softly in the dim light of the hallway, the only sound in the house besides the sharp, newborn wail echoing from the nursery down the corridor.

John pushed the front door closed with a soft click, tugging off his coat and tossing his cap onto the side table. Mud still clung to his boots, and the scent of smoke and rain clung to his clothes. He paused in the quiet, his blue eyes scanning the dark house—too quiet, if not for the cries.

"Shite..." he murmured under his breath, running a hand down his face. It had been another long night with Tommy and the boys. He hadn't meant to stay out this late. Again.

He stepped into the front room, eyes immediately falling on you—curled up on the worn sofa, blanket draped over your shoulders, your breathing slow and steady. You must’ve fallen asleep waiting for him.

The baby’s crying pierced the silence again.

John let out a quiet sigh, softening as he looked between you and the nursery door.

“I’ve got it, love,” he whispered, careful not to wake you. “You sleep.”

He moved quietly down the hall, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went. As he pushed open the nursery door, the tiny bundle in the crib squirmed and wailed, little fists waving in protest. John crouched down, scooping the baby up into his arms with practiced ease.

“There now,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “You miss me too, eh? Just like your mum…”

He swayed gently, patting the baby's back. His hardened expression melted away as he cradled his child, pressing a soft kiss to their forehead.

“Don’t worry. Da’s home now.”