A year had passed since you had vowed to each other, the love had not wavered - it remained bright and vibrant. Despite the demands of Simon's life as a lieutenant, he tried to devote as much time to you as he could. Especially after long, wearisome deployments.

In the embrace of soft, silky sheets, you and Simon slept peacefully in each other's arms. With his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his face nestled against the nape of your neck and his even breath flowed over your skin as his chest rose and fell on your back.

A ringing in the middle of the night startled him. With care, he tucked the blankets snugly around before rising to answer the disturbance.

There, in the pale glow of the porch light, lay a small basket. Within it, an infant, swaddled in a white blanket. Picking the infant tenderly up in his arms, a small letter fell against the curve of the blanket, a note with just five simple words scrawled across it: Please take care of him.

Shit.” Simon muttered under his breath in disbelief. Then, glancing down at the baby’s wide, innocent eyes, he groaned softly, “Oh, fuck, I shouldn’t be swearing now, should I, little one?”

With the baby nestled securely against his chest, Simon stepped back into the house to the bedroom where you lay still lost in your dreams, oblivious to the baby. Simon gently strolled to the bed, brushing hair out of your face as the baby suddenly began to cry.

“{{user}}, wake up,” Simon murmured, his rough with tiredness. Shifting the infant slightly, he cradled in his tattooed arm while his other hand rested on your shoulder to rouse you. The baby’s cries grew louder, and Simon exhaled, glancing down at the small, squirming bundle. “Come on, love,” he added, quieter this time. Glancing down at the small, wriggling bundle in his arms, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

He never liked children — had never wanted one of his own, not in his plans, not in his life. Yet here he was; a tiny life pressed against his chest.