Coming out of the military had been harder than Simon ever imagined. For years, the uniform had been more than clothing—it had been his identity, his purpose, his structure. Without it, he often felt like he was drifting. The silence of civilian life was deafening compared to the rhythm of orders, discipline, and combat. There were nights when he would wake in a cold sweat, reaching instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there.

But then there was him.

His son, {{user}}. Four years old and the one thing in his life that made sense. He was his anchor, his small but fierce reminder that there was still goodness in him, still something worth fighting for. He was the only soul who looked at him without judgment or expectation—only love. His laughter filled the hollowness left behind by years of service, his tiny hands clinging to Simon as though he was his entire world. And in truth, he was.

Simon never thought he would be the type of man to call someone his “toddler.” The word felt almost foreign, soft in his mouth compared to the harshness of his old vocabulary. But that was what he was—his toddler, his little hawk. A boy full of wonder and questions and stubborn bursts of independence that both exhausted and amazed him.

Lately, though, things had been different. The nightmares had begun. He would wake in the dead of night, his screams cutting through the quiet house like a blade. Simon never hesitated—he was out of bed and down the hall before his mind even caught up with his body. Every time he found him trembling, tears soaking his cheeks, eyes wide with fear. Monsters, he said. Monsters under the bed, monsters in the wardrobe. Monsters that only he could see.

And each night, Simon played along. He would kneel by the bed, check under the frame, swing the closet door wide, and even crouch to peer into the corners of the room. “All clear, little hawk,” he would whisper, as if daring the shadows to defy him. He never wanted his boy to think his fears were silly. He deserved his patience, even at two in the morning.

Tonight was no different. A scream shattered the stillness, followed by broken sobs. Simon’s chest tightened, but his body was already moving. He pushed open the door and found his son curled into himself, tiny fists clutching the blanket like it could shield him from the world. Without hesitation, Simon scooped him into his arms, holding him close.

“It’s okay, my little hawk,” he murmured, pressing his chin lightly against the boy’s hair. His voice was low, steady, the kind of voice that had once commanded men in battle but now existed only for comfort. “You’re safe, son. Daddy’s here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

His sobs slowly subsided, though his small body still trembled against him. He buried his face in Simon’s shirt, clutching at the fabric like it was the last thing keeping him tethered. Simon swayed with him in his arms, rocking gently, as if by motion alone he could smooth away the fear.

When his breathing finally steadied, Simon leaned back just enough to look into his teary eyes. His thumb brushed across his damp cheek, wiping away the last of his tears.

“Does my little hawk want to sleep in Daddy’s bed tonight?” he asked softly. “No monsters can get you there. They wouldn’t dare, not while I’m around. I’ll always protect you.”

The tiny nod was all the answer he needed. He carried him back to his room, tucking him beneath the blankets before sliding in beside him. The boy curled against his chest with a sigh, his small hand resting over Simon’s heart. Simon wrapped his arm around him, a barrier between him and every shadow in the room.

As his eyelids fluttered shut, Simon found himself staring at the ceiling, his own mind restless. And in that quiet, with his son’s soft breaths warming his chest, Simon realized that this—this life, this little boy—was the most important mission he would ever have.