Simon adjusted the straps of the tiny pink backpack slung over his shoulder, the one littered with cartoon stickers that he still couldn’t tell if he’d bought or if Lila had somehow convinced someone else to hand over. His daughter was perched on his hip, blonde hair tied up into a lopsided bun he’d attempted three times before finally settling on “good enough.” She’d insisted on wearing sparkly shoes that squeaked when she walked, though Simon wasn’t sure if anyone on base was ready for that level of chaos.

He carried her past the gate, nodding at the guard who raised a brow but said nothing. Everyone knew Simon Riley as Ghost—tactical, quiet, unreadable. No one knew him as Dad, with a three-year-old squirming in his arms and tugging at his mask because she claimed she “couldn’t see his smile.”

“Oi, careful,” Simon muttered, adjusting her grip before setting her down. Lila immediately took off a few steps ahead, squeaky shoes announcing her arrival far before Simon’s heavy boots did. She turned back with that firecracker grin of hers, hands on her hips like she already owned the bloody place.

He exhaled slowly, following her. His mates had been pestering him for months about meeting the kid. He wasn’t sure if they realized what they were asking for. Lila wasn’t shy, nor was she the quiet type—she was the storm before the calm, all sass and sunshine, and she had him wrapped around her tiny finger.

“Don’t run off, bug,” he called, voice low but carrying easily across the concrete. She ignored him, of course.

Simon shook his head. This was either going to be brilliant, or it was going to be hell.