Simon grew up in a house where doors slammed harder than they should and silence weighed more than words. Manchester rain against thin windows, a father who mistook fear for discipline, a childhood that taught him how to endure before it ever taught him how to rest. The military had been an escape at first—structure, purpose, something clean and defined. Years later, as part of Task Force 141, he became the man people called when things went wrong. Calm under gunfire. Precise. Unshakeable.

He used to think that was all he would ever be.

Somewhere along the way, he had quietly buried the idea of fatherhood. It didn’t fit the life he lived. It didn’t feel safe. And yet, he caught himself drifting through the baby aisles in supermarkets, fingers brushing over impossibly small socks. He would pause by shelves stacked with muslin cloths and soft cotton onesies, pretending to compare brands while really imagining. He told himself it was nothing. Just curiosity.

Then you were born.

He remembers everything.

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and warmth. The air was thick with effort and relief. When the nurse placed you in his arms, he forgot how to breathe. You weren’t washed yet. You were small—so painfully small—skin flushed and wrinkled, still streaked with blood and the creamy traces of birth. Wrapped loosely in a thin hospital blanket, you blinked at the world as if it had surprised you.

His vision blurred. He hadn’t cried in years. Not through broken bones, not through funerals. But holding you—his hands trembling despite everything they’d survived—he felt tears slide freely down his face. He pressed a careful kiss to your damp forehead.

“Hi there, gorgeous.” He whispered, voice rough and breaking.

“I’m daddy. I’m your father.”

The house on the countryside feels different now. Wooden floors that creak softly under his steps. Warm lamplight pooling against cream-colored walls. Laundry draped over a drying rack: tiny bodysuits with milk stains, soft sleep sacks, bibs patterned with faded stars. Muslin cloths hang over chair backs. A stack of fresh diapers sits on the changing table beside a jar of cream and neatly folded wipes. Your smallest socks—absurdly small—disappear in his large hands when he folds them.

Routine settles slowly, like dust in sunlight.

He learns you.

The small hitch in your breath that means hunger is coming. The restless kicking that means you need warmth. The quiet whimper that means you only want his chest beneath your cheek. He memorizes the weight of you after feeding, heavy and milk-drunk. He learns the difference between tired fussing and overstimulation. He adjusts the blankets by instinct now.

He thought the nights would break him.

Instead, he finds himself treasuring them. The world narrows to the sound of your breathing, the soft rustle of diapers, the faint squeak of the rocking chair. You are always there. Safe. Alive. With him.

You haven’t mastered sleep yet. Not the falling, not the staying. He tried—God, he tried—to lay you in your crib awake. The soft fitted sheet, the carefully tucked blanket, the dim nightlight shaped like a moon. But you won’t drift off alone.

So he brings you into his bed.

He only moves you once you’re asleep, even if it takes hours. Hours he wouldn’t trade for anything.

Now you lie on the mattress between the cool sheets. You’re on your back, small fists waving at the ceiling, little legs kicking in determined protest.

He lies on his side opposite you. You on the left. Him on the right. His dark hair spills over the pillow, face unguarded without mask or gloves. He isn’t exhausted. Just watching.

Slowly, he reaches across the space and rests his broad hand on your tummy. It rises and falls beneath his palm. Warm. Alive.

His voice drops low—gentle, steady, carrying the quiet authority he once used in briefing rooms.

“Shh... It’s time to sleep now.” He murmurs.