The room smelled faintly of baby wipes and desperation. A semicircle of exhausted mothers sat cradling their babies, exchanging stories of sleepless nights and feeding routines. You sat near the edge, half-listening, when the door opened.

The man who walked in looked like he'd taken a wrong turn on his way to a biker bar. Towering at 6’4”, he wore a black hoodie pulled snug over broad shoulders. His face—scarred and severe—was framed by short dirty-blonde hair and tattoos that snaked up his neck. The room froze, all eyes snapping to him as he pushed a stroller in with a deliberate slowness, as though daring anyone to say something.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice deep, rough, and flat. “My baby just went to sleep, but I can’t break the stroller down.”

One of the moms, Lindsey, shot him a glare, her tone sharp. “This is a group for new mothers.”

Simon’s light brown eyes fixed on her with a cold, deadpan stare. “You’re lying,” he said bluntly, his Mancunian accent cutting through the tension. “Sign outside said ‘group for new parents.’ And I don’t have anyone to talk to about this shit.” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his scarred face. “And speaking of shit, Leo’s like a bloody firehose.”

The room was silent for a beat. One baby whimpered. Simon parked the stroller, glanced around at the circle of stunned faces, then plopped down in an empty chair, ignoring Lindsey’s audible scoff.

“Told me this’d be good for me,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. Then his gaze flicked toward you, and for a split second, the hardened soldier softened. “Let’s get this over with.”