The baby is three weeks old when you wake to the soft creak of the floorboards and the quiet, rhythmic shush of Simon’s voice.

You don’t open your eyes right away. It’s barely past dawn, and for once, your daughter’s cries didn’t pull you from sleep. Someone else got there first—someone solid and steady, with a weight to him that’s comforting in every sense of the word.

Simon still moves with that practiced soldier’s precision—quiet, sure-footed—but there’s something different now. A bit more softness to his frame. The sharp lines of his usual lean build have softened into a gentle curve around his middle, where a slight dad bod rests beneath the stretched fabric of his worn hoodie.

He leans over the crib, the warmth of his presence filling the room, cradling her close with a tenderness that feels new but natural.

“It’s alright, sweet’eart. Got you now,” Simon murmurs, gently swaying with her pressed to his chest.

Her tiny fingers clutch at the fabric around his waist, nestled against the gentle roundness that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t seem to notice—or if he does, he doesn’t mind.

He presses a soft kiss to her head without thinking, eyes heavy with sleep, voice rough but full of quiet comfort. “Just a little gas, huh? S’not so bad.”