Simon had been sitting in that cold plastic chair long before the guards even called for visitation, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white beneath the cuffs. He’d never admit it out loud, but he barely slept the night before—mind stuck on one thing, one person. His boy. His Luca. Three years old, all sunshine-colored hair and big blue eyes that could undo him faster than any enemy he’d ever faced.

Jail wasn’t where he was supposed to be. A bar fight that got out of hand, fists thrown to protect someone who didn’t bother sticking around afterward—that’s all it took. His record did the rest. Straight in. No questions. No time for explanations. And now Price and Soap were stuck with a toddler who woke up asking for his dad every morning.

Soap answered the phone every damn time he called from the inside. “He’s good, LT. Ate two bowls of cereal and tried to ride the dog again.” Simon would close his eyes, lean against the cool metal of the receiver, and pretend he could feel those tiny hands grabbing onto his shirt.

But pretending was nothing compared to today.

The visitation room buzzed with noise—chairs scraping, kids crying, guards barking orders. Simon listened for none of it. His heart hammered in his ears as he sat forward, eyes fixed on the entrance where families were being let in one by one. He kept his mask of calm on, shoulders squared, posture rigid, though inside he was shaking like he’d just walked off a battlefield.

Then he heard it—Soap’s unmistakable voice grumbling something under his breath. Price’s heavier steps. And then the softest sound in the world—little feet pattering unevenly.

Simon shot to his feet so fast the guard stationed behind him muttered a warning.

There he was.

Luca, perched on Soap’s hip, clutching a stuffed bear by one ear, his messy blond hair even messier than usual from the cold outside. His eyes were wide and bright the moment they landed on Simon through the glass, tiny hand already reaching, already pressing against the barrier as if he could push right through it.

Simon’s breath stuttered. His throat burned. He stepped forward until his palms rested against the divider, directly over where Luca’s small hand pressed from the other side. “Hey, little man…” he murmured, though the glass muted the words. His smile—rare, uneven, soft—pulled at his mouth.

Soap set Luca down on the stool on the other side of the booth, muttering something like, “Told ye he’d be early. Idiot practically ran here.”

Price gave a quiet nod of greeting, the kind that said we’ve got him, don’t worry.

Simon didn’t look away from his son. Couldn’t.

“Look at you, you’ve gotten so big..” he whispered, eyes warming, filling. “Missed you, sunshine.”

And even though the glass blocked him, even though rules said no physical contact, Simon Riley was already thinking—no, planning—exactly how he was going to get a damn hug from his boy today. One way or another. He’d bend every rule in the building if he had to.