The wind was cutting by the time you made it back to the gates. Patrol had run late. Jackson’s streets were mostly empty by then.

You nodded to the guard at the tower and slipped inside. You liked this part, returning home.

The porch light was on. That meant he was still awake.

Inside, it was warm. You kicked your boots off at the door. Let your coat drop over the chair.

And then you saw him.

In the living room, lit by the soft orange flicker of the fireplace, Joel was in his recliner, legs stretched, head tilted slightly to the side.

Asleep. Or almost.

His book had slipped lower in his hand, forgotten mid-sentence. But what caught your breath was the small shape curled on his chest.

Your baby.

Barely a few months old, still too tiny for most of the clothes Maria kept knitting.

They slept like he did, mouth slack, one hand fisted in the collar of his flannel. Their cheek pressed just below his collarbone, rising with each breath he took. Joel’s other hand — the one not holding the book — was splayed protectively over their back. Steady. Warm.

He hadn’t heard you come in. Or maybe he had, but didn’t want to move.

Fatherhood looked different on Joel now. Softer, maybe. Quieter. It wasn’t the same as before, and it never would be, but something about the way he held them told you everything.

You just stood there a moment. Watching them. Watching him.

You fought the night before. He hadn’t wanted you on patrol. Not yet. “We need you home more than out there,” he’d muttered the night before.

Now, blinking sleepily, Joel noticed you at the doorway. His eyes flicked to the dried snow on your pants, the tension still in your shoulders. And then, more softly, down to your hand where you held out the blanket and the book, a worn copy of Goodnight Moon and Joel’s favorite coffee.

You knelt beside the recliner, resting the items on the table. Brushed a hand over the baby’s back, then to Joel’s arm — warm, solid, anchoring.

“You’re too damn good at makin’ me worry.” he muttered.