Simon had always been a man who lived in the shadows — long nights, distant missions, and weeks away from home. That changed the day you were born. Ever since, he’d made a quiet promise to himself: get home earlier, be there more, make sure you never wondered if he cared. And he’d kept to it, most days. But being a lieutenant meant that sometimes the work piled up, and tonight had been one of those days.

By the time he stepped through the front door, it was 10 p.m. The house was still, the lights low. He slipped off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric carrying the faint scent of rain and engine oil.

“I’m back, baby.” He called softly into the quiet. Not loud enough to wake you if you were sleeping, but enough that you’d hear if you were still up.

The kitchen light flicked on with a low hum as Simon moved inside. He took a few things from the fridge — leftover roast, a slice of bread, some cheese — and put together a quick plate. The warmth from the kettle filled the air with the faint scent of tea leaves.

He sat down at the kitchen table, the wood cool under his forearms, and let the silence settle around him. His gaze lingered for a moment toward the hallway where your room was, then dropped back to the meal in front of him.