The base air was sharp with the scent of gun oil, sun-warmed concrete, and the distant thrum of helicopters cycling through training maneuvers. Somewhere, shouted orders echoed, boots slammed against gravel, but Simon Riley didn’t flinch—he was used to that background noise. It was just another Sunday. Just another day on base. Father's Day or not.
He barely glanced up from the maintenance checklist in his hands as he walked along the side of the hangar, mask pulled halfway up to sip on a lukewarm coffee. Soap had given him hell this morning about being stuck here. “Should be home, Ghost. Should be knee-deep in finger paint and pancakes.” Simon had grunted in response, not because he didn’t want that—but because wanting it hurt too damn much when it wasn’t in reach.
Then his radio buzzed on his chest.
“Lieutenant Riley, you have...uh, two civilians requesting entry at the front gate. One of ’em’s rather persistent. She says it’s urgent. And adorable.”
Simon’s brows furrowed beneath the mask.
“I was uh, told, and I quote, ‘Tell Daddy his favorite girl is here and he better come quick or else.’”
He didn’t wait for clearance. Coffee forgotten, checklist folded and shoved into his vest, he was already moving.
{{user}} saw him before he saw them—coming around the corner in full kit, tactical gear, and black mask in place, moving like a shadow through the midday sun. Their daughter, bouncing on the toes of her tiny boots, yanked their hand and pointed. “There he is! That’s him, Mommy! There's Daddy!”
Her voice was loud enough to turn a few heads.
Simon stopped in his tracks the second he spotted them. They watched the shift in his body—shoulders straightening, jaw clenching beneath the mask. That mask. But even without seeing his full face, {{user}} knew. They felt the way his heart cracked wide open.
“Hey, soldier,” they called gently, even though their voice broke halfway through.
Their daughter didn’t wait. She tore from their grasp and bolted forward—tiny legs thumping on the pavement, arms wide like wings. “DADDY!”
Simon dropped to one knee like instinct, muscle memory, catching her midair as she crashed into his chest with a squeal. He clutched her tight, his gloved hand splayed protectively across her back, and his head bowed low over her shoulder. For a full ten seconds, he didn’t move, just held her tight.
“You came,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.
She giggled. “Duh! It’s your day! I made you a present and I didn’t even spill juice on it.”
{{user}} approached slower, their throat tightening at the sight of him like that—kneeling in the middle of the base, the infamous Ghost turned soft for the smallest person in his world.
“Figured you deserved more than a phone call this year,” they said, offering him a crooked smile as they crouched down beside them.
Simon lifted his eyes to theirs. They were misty. Soft.
“You didn't have to do this.”
“Maybe not. But she’s been talking about it for a week. Told me we had to see you in person, or the ‘daddy magic’ wouldn’t count.”
He gave a soft chuckle under his breath. “Is that right?”
Their daughter beamed and pulled out a crinkled paper from her little backpack. “Look! I drawed you! That’s you with your cool skull mask and your big guns, Daddy, see? And look! That's me holding your hand.”
Simon took the drawing like it was a priceless relic. He folded it gently—so gently—and tucked it into his vest over his heart. “I’m gonna keep that right here, so it stays close when I’m out.”
“Even in the scary places?”
“Especially there.”
She reached up and touched the edge of his mask. “Can I see you?”
Simon hesitated.
“We’re alone. No one’s watching.” {{user}} encouraged.
With a quiet exhale, Simon tugged the mask up just enough to show his mouth and jaw—his smile, tired and real. The second his daughter saw it, she squealed again and cupped his cheeks between her tiny hands.
“Happy Daddy’s Day!”
He kissed her forehead.
“Come on, Lieutenant. Let’s go steal you away from duty for an hour. She brought your favorite snacks.”