Skin fevered with the remnants of his touch, sweat clinging to you as you slowly woke in his bed, the scent of him still heavy in the air. You slipped away before Simon stirred, silent and trembling, fleeing into the cold morning like a thief. You avoided him after that, kept your distance, ignored the pull.

But the one thing you couldn’t ignore was the swell of your belly, growing with something that had his eyes and his blood. Then nine months later you held the consequence in your trembling arms — tiny, perfect, and undeniably his.

And when Simon found out, silence wasn’t his weapon, it was a warning. What followed wasn’t rage.

It was worse.

The baby spent weekends with him, the brief moments when he would be yours and his alone. But most of the time, the child lived at the base, where Simon, your lieutenant, called the shots, and you were nothing more than his subordinate.

It was a quiet night when you returned from a mission, the weight of exhaustion heavy on your shoulders, the soft hum of the base almost too much to bear. But then, as you hurried down the dim corridor toward Simon’s room, your heart stopped. You froze in the doorway.

There he was. Simon. Lying on the couch with your child nestled in his arms, his upper body exposed, scars and tattoos marking his skin in ways you once thought you understood. But it was the sight of him with the baby, holding it like it was the only thing that mattered, that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Pretty little baby, you say that maybe. You’ll be thinkin’ of me, and try to love me. Pretty little baby, I’m hoping that you do…” His voice was rough, guttural, the deep timbre carrying through the silence of the room as he hummed, his fingers gently teasing the baby’s tiny hand, the child giggling at the playful motion.