The morning began with weight.

Not the kind John Price carried on missions — not orders, not the weight of command. This was different. Heavier in a way that made his chest feel full.

His wife lay sprawled in their bed, one breast bared, hair a tangled halo on the pillow, their son stretched across her body like a tiny king who had conquered his throne. The boy’s cheek was pressed against her skin, his mouth slack in sleep, a soft snore puffing against her breast.

Price leaned in the doorway, mug of coffee in hand, unable to tear his eyes away. He’d seen battlefields turned to fire and ash, but this… this was holy.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, almost reverent “He’s eatin’ you alive, love.”

She cracked one eye open, bleary and half-annoyed. “Third feed since five. I’m a buffet.”

Price padded forward, shirtless and barefoot, hair sticking up like he’d been dragged through a wind tunnel. He crouched by the bed, studying his son — round, pink, cheeks full like dough rising in an oven.

“Built like a loaf of bread, this one,” he whispered, grinning.

Price kissed her knee through the blanket, unable to stop himself from touching, from grounding himself in this moment. “Can’t blame the lad. Best place in the world, right here. Smart boy.”

The baby stirred, fists curling, mouth working like he was already thinking about seconds. She groaned softly. “He’s gonna wake up and latch again.”

Price bent low, lips ghosting over the baby’s hair. “Oi, little man. Give your mum a breather, yeah? You’ve had half the bloody pantry already.”

The boy grunted, kicking once in his sleep, and Price chuckled. God, he loved that sound.

Then he kissed her. Not quick. Not fleeting. Deep, slow, like he had all the time in the world. He tasted of coffee and warmth and home. When he finally drew back, he whispered “You’re beautiful. All soft and strong and… this. You and him like this. I’d fight a hundred wars for this.”

Price slid his arms beneath the baby, lifting him with ease despite the extra weight those little rolls carried now. The boy settled against his chest like he’d been there his whole life. Price kissed his milk-sticky chin, earning a sleepy grunt and another kick.

“Greedy little bugger,” he murmured fondly. “Let’s give your mum a break, eh?”

As he padded into the hall, his hand steady on his son’s back, he spoke softly, low enough for no one else to hear.

“Can’t blame you, mate. If I had it my way, I’d be nursin’ too. She’s bloody magic.”

And he meant it.