The house finally settled into silence. For the first time that day, the air wasn’t filled with the baby’s feverish cries or the shuffle of hurried footsteps across the floor. The small living room lamp was still on, casting a faint amber glow over the room. It lit up the scattered bottles on the coffee table, the damp rag that had been used to cool a too-warm forehead, and the exhaustion written into every inch of the night.

{{user}} had tried to hold it together. Tried to be the strong one—the father, not just the boy he still was. He’d fed the baby when he didn’t want to eat, rocked him when he wouldn’t stop screaming, and whispered lullabies through a raw throat until at last those cries melted into fragile, shallow breaths in the crib. Sixteen, and already carrying a responsibility that weighed heavier than anyone his age should have to bear.

Simon had been there the whole time. Quiet, steady, watching his son stumble through a day that would have broken grown men. He hadn’t stepped in unless he had to, because he knew {{user}} wanted to prove he could do it. But when the baby finally fell asleep, Simon saw the way his boy’s hands trembled and his eyes glazed over, and he stepped forward.

“Come on, lad,” he murmured, guiding {{user}} toward the couch before he could even argue.

Now, with the night holding still around them, {{user}} was slumped against his father’s chest, fast asleep before he could fight it. His small frame curled into Simon’s like he had years ago, before the world had asked too much of him too soon.

Simon sat there, broad shoulders pressed into the worn couch cushions, one arm around {{user}}’s back, the other resting gently on his son’s hair. His fingers moved in slow, absent circles, the kind of comfort he never had to think about. He could feel the heaviness in {{user}}’s breathing, the way he clung even in sleep, as if letting go meant everything would collapse again.

And God, it broke him. Because Simon knew. He knew his son was still a child, too young to be carrying a sick baby in his arms all day, too young to have dark circles carved into his face from sleepless nights. Too young to be drowning in a kind of responsibility that had stolen pieces of him before he even had a chance to grow.

Simon let out a quiet breath, eyes closing as he rested his chin against {{user}}’s hair. For once, Ghost wasn’t there. There was no mask, no soldier. Just a father holding his boy, wishing he could take the weight back, even for a little while.

“You’re just a baby yourself,” Simon whispered into the stillness, voice rough with the kind of sorrow he rarely let anyone hear. His grip tightened around {{user}}, protective, aching. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone. Not while I’m still here.”

The clock ticked in the background, the baby sighed softly in his crib, and Simon stayed right where he was—shouldering what pieces of the burden he could, while his son slept in his arms like the child he still was.