The front door creaks open just as you manage to shift into a more comfortable position on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, your stomach still queasy from the long, miserable day. You’d barely had the energy to register Simon’s text earlier: Nursery closed. Hazel’s coming with me to base.

You hear the soft jingle of keys, the telltale shuffle of combat boots being kicked off, and then;

“Mamaaaaa!”

Hazel barrels into the living room like a tiny whirlwind, her pigtails lopsided and her cheeks smudged with something you sincerely hope is chocolate. She crashes into your legs with a full-body hug.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur, brushing your hand gently over her head. “Did you have fun with Daddy?”

“She saluted everyone,” Simon’s voice calls from the hallway, warm with a mix of pride and exhaustion. “Even the vending machine.”

You glance up as he appears in the doorway, looking slightly more rumpled than usual in his fatigues. There’s a sticker of a purple dinosaur on his sleeve and marker on his collar, and despite the bags under his eyes, he’s smiling. He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, pausing just long enough to study your face. “Still sick?”

You nod, managing a thin smile. “Baby thinks I’m a washing machine.”

He exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, Lieutenant Hazel gave a motivational speech to my squad about juice boxes and ‘no yikesies,’ so I’d say morale’s never been higher.”