The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of a Christmas lullaby drifting from the speaker in the corner and the occasional creak of old floorboards as winter wind pressed against the windows. You stood in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, watching Simon with your ten-month-old son.

Simon had only been home three days. Two months overseas had stretched into something that felt endless, but now he was here—real, solid—standing beneath the gentle glow of the Christmas tree. Reds and golds shimmered across his face, catching along the line of his jaw and the faint scruff he hadn’t bothered to shave since returning.

His back was to you—broad and familiar—made almost boyish by the ridiculous Christmas sweater you’d surprised him with. A reindeer wearing night vision goggles. He’d rolled his eyes when he opened it, muttering something about “tactical festive wear,” but he’d pulled it on without protest.

Your son was curled against his chest, tiny fingers knotted in the sweater’s collar, head heavy on Simon’s shoulder in that loose, sleepy way only babies manage. One of Simon’s hands cradled him with easy strength; the other lifted slowly, pointing toward the tree.

“The one right here, mate,” Simon said softly, gesturing toward a small ornament near the center. Gold, delicate, engraved with Baby’s First Christmas. The one you’d picked out together back in September, when the thought of the holidays without him had felt like a weight pressing on your ribs.

The baby squealed, wriggling with sudden energy and reaching with eager hands. Simon smiled and shifted the ornament just out of reach.

“Ah-ah, cheeky lad,” he murmured with a quiet laugh. “Not quite yet.”

A dramatic pout followed. Then giggles. Simon caved almost immediately, guiding those small fingers carefully toward the bauble.

“See that?” he whispered. “That one’s yours, little one. That’s for you.”

Your throat tightened.

There was no mask now. No guarded distance. Just Simon. His expression was unshielded, eyes warm with something tender and unspoken. He looked at your son like he was holding the whole world in his arms—and maybe he was.

You stayed quiet, afraid to fracture the fragile, golden thread wrapped around the moment. You just watched, memorizing it. The lights. The warmth. Him.

As if sensing your gaze, Simon glanced over his shoulder. His hazel eyes found yours and softened further, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“Caught me, did you?” he asked gently.

You stepped closer, tightening the blanket around yourself. “I could watch you two all night.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, turning just enough so the baby could still see the tree while you could see more of him. “He’s got your curiosity,” Simon said. “Keeps staring at the lights like they’re made of magic.”

“Maybe they are,” you replied softly.

Simon nodded, gaze drifting back to the tree. “Feels like it,” he admitted. “Feels like everything’s… right again.”

You reached out, resting your hand on his arm, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him. “I missed this.”

His eyes returned to yours, darker now, steadier. “I missed you,” he said, voice low. “Both of you. Every damn second.”

Your son let out a tiny yawn, blinking up at Simon with heavy eyes. Instinctively, Simon adjusted his hold and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his son’s head.

You swallowed. “Let’s not do that again,” you said quietly. “The deployments. The waiting. Not like this.”

For a brief second, Simon’s jaw tightened. The soldier in him flickered behind his eyes. Then he nodded once.

“One more year,” he said. “And then I’m done. I swear it.”