The debrief was a low, monotonous drone. Captain Price’s voice was a steady rumble, going over the logistics of their last op—transport, ammunition expenditure, after-action reports. Standard fare.

Simon was not listening. Hardly, really.

His body was present, a massive, silent form leaning against a metal storage rack, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was fixed somewhere on the stained concrete floor between his boots, but his mind was miles away. He was mentally cataloguing the contents of his home fridge, wondering if he needed to stop for milk on the way back, hoping you’d made that stew he liked.

Gaz, Price, and Soap were deep in a conversation about the questionable structural integrity of the transport they’d ‘borrowed,’ their voices a familiar background hum. They were oblivious.

But Simon was not.

His head snapped up, a predator catching a scent. A subtle shift in the air pressure, the faint squeak of a hinge far down the corridor. His eyes, sharp and perceptive behind the balaclava, cut towards the main hangar door. It was opening.

His entire body went rigid, then fluid with a sudden, shocking urgency.

He saw you first. You, who never came here. It was a rule, an ironclad agreement. His world was one of blood, shadows, and violence. Your world was one of warm light, soft laughter, and safety. He worked every day to keep a fortified wall between them. For your protection. For hers.

Because on your hip, one small hand tangled in your shirt, was his daughter.

A low, involuntary sound escaped him, a sharp intake of breath muffled by the mask. He was moving before he even consciously decided to, pushing off from the rack and striding across the hangar floor. The conversation behind him died a sudden death as the others finally noticed his abrupt departure and followed his line of sight.

He heard Soap’s low, stunned whistle. Gaz’s muttered, “Bloody hell.” Price’s gruff, knowing chuckle.

But Simon heard none of it. His world had shrunk to the two figures by the door. You, looking slightly apologetic but smiling, and his daughter, her wide eyes taking in the vast, scary space of the hangar until they landed on him. Her little face lit up. “Dada!”

His heart clenched so violently in his chest he thought it might stop.

He wanted to run. He wanted to shove the two of you into the nearest car and drive until the base was a distant memory. He wanted to build a wall around you both ten feet thick.

But then he saw it. The detail that undid him completely.

Pinned into her fine, flyaway brown hair were two plastic hair clips. Pink. Coated in garish, childish glitter. And they were shaped into perfect, tiny little skulls. A miniature, sparkly echo of the macabre motif plastered across his own masks and gear.

He had no idea how you’d done it. If you’d hunted them down online or, more likely, painstakingly made them yourself. The thought of you doing that, of you incorporating this dark symbol of his violent life into something so innocent and sweet for his little girl, was the most profoundly loving thing he had ever witnessed.

He reached you in six long strides, his movements uncharacteristically hurried. He ignored the audience of his entire team.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a low, rough rasp, strained with a potent cocktail of anxiety and overwhelming affection. His large, gloved hand came up, not to pull you into an embrace, but to gently cup the back of his daughter’s head, his thumb stroking her hair just beside one of the skull clips.