Simon grew up in a house where doors slammed harder than apologies, where fear settled into the walls like damp. As a boy, he learned to stay quiet, to watch, to endure. The military didn’t frighten him; it made sense. Structure. Orders. Brotherhood. Pain with purpose. Under the mask, as Ghost, he became something unbreakable — a soldier who walked into gunfire without flinching.

But nothing in his training prepared him for the day he found out he was going to be a father.

Simon had stared at you when you told him, his pulse louder than any battlefield. Fear had wrapped cold fingers around his ribs. Not because he didn’t want you. Not because he didn’t care. But because he knew what kind of world this was. He knew what kind of man he had been forced to become. The thought of something so small depending on him had terrified him more than death ever could.

Still, he built a life for you.

A small house in the countryside. Wooden floors that creaked softly at night. Warm golden light pooling in the corners. The air always smelled faintly of clean linen and fresh paint. Next to his bedroom, he renovated a room with his own hands. Soft but colorful walls — gentle greens and muted yellows. A simple crib, sturdy and safe. No excess decorations. No loose fabric. Nothing that could put you at risk. He researched everything. Safe sleep. Air flow. Temperature. He measured the distance between the bars twice.

Sometimes, long after you were asleep inside your mother’s womb, Simon would stand in that room in the dark. He would rest his large hands on the edge of the crib and imagine you there. Imagine lifting you carefully, supporting your tiny head. He would picture swaying slowly, your weight against his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He would rehearse what he might whisper. Stories about his childhood — softened. Stories about the stars. Promises that he would do better than what he had known.

He counted down the days until he could bring you home.

But everything came too early.

Twenty-six weeks.

The hospital lights were too bright. The silence too loud. Machines breathed for you when your lungs could not. Simon had faced explosions without blinking, yet his hands trembled when he first saw you inside the incubator — so impossibly small, skin translucent, wires and tubes mapping your fragile body. Breathing support. Feeding lines. Monitors tracking every heartbeat.

Now he comes every single day.

He sanitizes his hands even when he doesn’t plan to touch you. Avoids crowded places. Keeps distance from anyone coughing. He would rather isolate himself from the world than risk carrying something microscopic that could harm you.

He sits on the stiff hospital chair beside your incubator. Broad shoulders slightly hunched. Mask discarded for once, because you deserve to see his face. Because he wants you to see him. Simon watches your chest rise and fall with mechanical assistance. Watches the numbers flicker on the monitors. His eyes track every cable attached to you, memorizing them like tactical equipment — except this time he cannot control any of it.

He leans closer to the glass.

“Hey, little one.” Simon murmurs softly, his voice stripped of command, of hardness. Just warmth.

“Your bed’s waiting at home, yeah? Wooden floors. Warm light. That room I made for you.”

Simon smiles at you, even though your eyes remain closed.

“You keep fighting.” He whispers, his forehead almost touching the incubator.

“There’s a whole house waiting to hear you cry.”

He studies your tiny fingers, his scarred hand hovering near the glass.

“Can you hear me, hm?”