Simon Riley Through Pregnancy.
Husband.Simon Riley x Fem.Reader
TW: Grammar, regular military life (yes it’s a TW bc I don’t like my husband’s Sergeant Major or Commander.)
I reread this like 10 different times because my grammar will always suck. So, if you see something call me out. Constructive criticism is welcome.
Finding out you were pregnant was a doozy.
Neither of you had planned it, but being married to Simon Riley made planning difficult. You loved each other too much, and whenever he came home after weeks away, keeping your hands off him became impossible. Around ovulation? Simon jokingly started hiding from you. "I know that look," he'd mutter, backing toward the bedroom door.
“The one that says I’ve got about thirty seconds before you’re climbing me like a tree.” You’d laugh every time.
It clearly hadn’t worked.
Now the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder in the master bathroom, five pregnancy tests lined neatly across the countertop. One would've been enough for most people. Simon wanted certainty. Five pink positives. His brown eyes moved from one test to the next, counting them again despite already knowing the answer. Then they settled on you.
“We’re pregnant…” His voice was barely above a whisper, as though saying it too loudly might somehow make it disappear. He looked back at the tests. Then back at you. “You’re pregnant.”
Your vision blurred with tears before you even realized you were crying. A smile stretched across your face so wide your cheeks hurt.
“I guess I am.” He let out a shaky laugh, one hand rubbing over his face before cupping your cheeks.
“That’s why you’ve been exhausted.” You nodded. “And why you’ve been falling asleep halfway through movies.” Another nod. “And why you cried because we were out of cereal.”
“…That was a valid reason.”
Despite the joke, tears gathered in his own eyes. Neither of you came from homes you'd ever wanted to recreate. You both knew what it felt like to grow up wishing for something gentler, something steadier.
The fear lingered between you, unspoken. “What if we’re like them?” you whispered. Simon’s expression hardened—not with anger, but determination.
He rested his forehead against yours. “Because we’re already asking ourselves that question.”
The doctor's appointment came quicker than expected. Simon insisted on taking leave for the day despite your protests. "You don't need to come."
He held your hand through the blood draw, through the paperwork, through the ultrasound where neither of you could make sense of the blurry gray image on the screen.
The obstetrician smiled knowingly. "Congratulations. You're six weeks and four days from the first day of your last menstrual period." Simon immediately launched into questions.
"Is she healthy? Any signs she's high-risk? What should she avoid? How often do you need to see her? What symptoms warrant an emergency visit?" You watched him with an amused smile. He looked like he was being briefed before a classified operation.
The doctor answered every question patiently before finally smiling. “Lieutenant…” Simon looked up. “Right now your wife and baby both look perfectly healthy.” The tension left his shoulders so suddenly you thought he might collapse into the chair.
The first trimester humbled both of you. You slept constantly—on the couch, in bed, and once, Simon came home from work to find you asleep at the kitchen table with a half-finished sandwich still in your hand. He sighed affectionately, picked you up, and carried you to bed without waking you.
Morning sickness never really came. You thanked every higher power that would listen.
"You did this to me," you'd mumble dramatically from beneath the blankets. Simon looked over his book. "It takes two to tango."
"I wouldn't feel like this if it weren't for you."
He smirked. "I seem to remember someone turning into an ovulation monster."
"I never said I didn't." You threw a pillow at him. He caught it effortlessly. "Still my fault?"
The cravings began around nine weeks. Some were normal—cake at three in the morning, fresh strawberries, grilled cheese. Others made Simon question your judgment entirely.
He watched you spear another pickle, then an olive, then a piece of cheese. "It's incredible," you told him happily. "I'll take your word for it." He made every craving without complaint, no matter the hour. Three in the morning? The kitchen light flicked on. By three-fifteen he'd somehow produced exactly the cake you wanted.
Then came chips dipped in ketchup. Simon stared at the bowl. He'd witnessed bombings, interrogations, war crimes. He'd survived torture. Yet somehow— "This might be the worst thing I've ever seen." You gasped dramatically. "Simon Riley!"
"I didn't say it out loud."
"…Right." You pouted. He immediately sighed. "Come here." The second you settled against him, he kissed the top of your head. "I'm sorry."
He glanced down at the nearly empty family-sized bag. "…Love."
"I think that's enough." You waved him away. "I'm still hungry."
"You've had three bowls."
"So maybe your stomach deserves a break."
You narrowed your eyes. "Go to bed."
“Yes.” He kissed your forehead and obediently walked upstairs. Exactly thirty seconds later— “Simon!” He smiled to himself. “…Yeah?”
“Why’d you actually leave?” He laughed all the way back downstairs.
By the second trimester, your little bump finally appeared. It wasn't obvious to anyone else. But Simon noticed immediately.
He rested his palm there one evening while the two of you stood brushing your teeth. "Hello in there." Nothing. "I know you're hiding." Still nothing. You laughed. "Maybe they're asleep."
At twenty-four weeks, ignoring him became impossible. He'd barely walked through the front door before kneeling in front of you—one kiss for you, one kiss for your stomach. "Treat Mum good today?" Almost instantly— thump. The baby kicked. His eyebrows shot up. "You felt that?"
"I've been feeling it all day." He pressed another kiss against your belly. "You giving your mum trouble already?”
"No," you interrupted. "Kid has been sitting on my bladder since six this morning." Simon looked at your stomach. "You hear that?" Another kick. "You're grounded." You laughed so hard you had to sit down.
Just before another deployment, you insisted on taking bump pictures. "I've got orders to be there in two hours," Simon reminded you. “I know.”
"And we're running late."
"I absolutely have." You made him stand in the garden a semi professional photographer smiling as she told you both how to pose.
For the photos you'd send to the team, he wore a simple black surgical mask. For the ones that would stay framed in your bedroom… he took it off. The smile on his face was small. Private. Entirely yours.
Dropping him off for deployments had always been difficult.
Pregnant, it was unbearable. Your hand never left his as you sat outside the operations building.
"What if…" Your voice caught. He looked over. "What if something happens while you're gone?"
His expression softened. Price had already marked your due date on the task force calendar. Three-month deployment. One month before your due date. Everything should line up. Should.
Simon squeezed your hand. "I'll be home."
"No." He leaned over to kiss your forehead.
"But I'll do everything I can."
The gender reveal wasn't glamorous.
Your family lived too far away. Friends couldn't coordinate schedules. So your best friend assembled a small box while Simon joined on a video call from somewhere he couldn't tell you. Price, Soap, and Gaz crowded around the screen behind him. "You ready?" Soap asked excitedly. You nodded, tears already threatening. Your eyes closed as you reached into the box. You pulled out a tiny onesie.
Silence. Then Johnny erupted. "I knew it!"
Gaz laughed. Price reached over and clapped Simon firmly on the shoulder. Congratulations echoed around the tiny screen.
You weren't listening. Neither was Simon. The two of you simply stared at one another, happy tears, huge smiles.
He wished more than anything that he could step through the screen, wrap you in his arms, and kiss every tear from your cheeks. Instead he smiled softly. “Our little girl.”
The third trimester tested every ounce of courage you had. Especially alone.
The first Braxton Hicks contraction hit while you were folding tiny baby clothes. Your stomach tightened painfully. Panic followed immediately. You called Simon before your brain had caught up. He answered on the second ring. "Love?"
"I think something's wrong." His heartbeat lurched. His voice never did. "Talk to me."
You explained between shaky breaths. He listened carefully. "Alright." Calm. Steady.
"Call the base OB. They'll answer."
"What if it's too early?"
"We'll let the doctors decide that." His hand tightened around his satellite phone on the other side of the world. "You and our little girl are going to get checked tomorrow morning."
"It'll be alright." You took a slow breath. Then another. He stayed on the line until your breathing matched his.
The next morning, your obstetrician smiled after the examination. "Everything looks perfect." You nearly cried with relief. "Baby girl is happy, healthy, and growing exactly as she'd like."
You called Simon the second you left the appointment. "See?" he said gently after hearing the news. "I told you she'd be alright." You smiled, resting a hand over your stomach as your daughter kicked in response. "I know." There was a brief silence. "I miss you." His reply came so quietly you almost missed it. "I know, love. So do I."
The countdown on your kitchen calendar had become more exciting than terrifying. Every morning you crossed off another day, another step closer to meeting your daughter. Thirty-four weeks. Six left, if she decided to cooperate. You had almost convinced yourself Simon would make it home before then. Almost.
Price had promised before they left. “He’ll be home.” True to his word, he was. His transport had landed just after noon, but debriefings always came first. Intelligence reports didn’t wait for reunions. You sat in the parking lot outside the operations building for nearly forty minutes, absently rubbing circles over the side of your stomach while your daughter shifted beneath your hand. She was getting stronger every day, her kicks enough to make your whole shirt jump if she caught you just right. “You’ve got his timing already,” you murmured to her. “Making us wait.” Almost on cue, she kicked.
The operations building doors finally opened. Price emerged first, talking quietly with Laswell before they shook hands. Behind them came Soap and Gaz, laughing about something neither of them seemed tired enough to remember. Then Simon stepped through the doorway. Your breath caught. Even behind the black mask, exhaustion clung to him. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his gear. Weeks of little sleep and too many miles were written into every movement. He looked around once. Then he found you.
You were already climbing awkwardly out of the driver’s seat before he’d taken three steps. At thirty-four weeks, “running” had become more of a determined waddle than anything graceful, but that didn’t stop you from trying. Simon met you halfway. His duffel hit the pavement. Without a word, he wrapped both arms around you, careful of your stomach but holding you as tightly as he dared. The hard plates of his carrier dug uncomfortably against your chest.
You hated that vest. Hated the smell of jet fuel clinging to his uniform. Hated what it represented. But you buried your face against it anyway.
He rested his forehead against yours. “I’m home.” Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
“I told you I would.” Behind him, Price smiled to himself before quietly herding Soap and Gaz toward the parking lot. “Give ’em a minute.”
Simon insisted on driving. “You’ve been driving yourself everywhere for three months.”
“My turn.” He opened your door, waited until you’d settled in comfortably, then walked around to the driver’s side after tossing his gear into the truck bed. The drive home was quiet. Comfortable. His hand found your thigh within minutes, his thumb lazily tracing slow circles while the radio hummed softly in the background. Neither of you felt the need to fill the silence. Being together again was enough.
When you finally pulled into the driveway, Simon climbed out first, opened your door, and offered both hands to help you down. “I’ve gotten huge.”
“You’ve gotten beautiful.”
You rolled your eyes. “Flattery.”
“The truth.” He gathered his gear with one hand, unlocked the front door with the other, then stepped aside. “Ladies first.”
“Our daughter’s already spoiled.”
“She deserves it. So do you.”
Lunch still sat on the stove exactly where you’d left it before driving to base. Covered. Warm. Simon noticed immediately. “You made food before you came to get me?”
“I figured we’d both be starving.”
“Shower first.” He looked over.
“You sure?” You nodded. “I’ve missed my husband.”
The bathroom quickly filled with steam. Neither of you rushed. Simon helped you out of your clothes with the same patience he’d always shown, his hands gentle as they brushed over your growing stomach. Once your shirt disappeared over your head, he stopped moving altogether. You laughed quietly. “What?” He just looked at you.
Months apart hadn’t prepared him for seeing you like this. Your bump was unmistakably round now. Faint silver lines traced across your skin. Your cheeks were fuller than before. There was a softness about your pregnancy had somehow created without taking away your strength. “You’ve been staring for a full minute.”
“I can’t help it.” He stepped closer. “I thought you were beautiful before.” His hand settled carefully over your stomach. “But this…” He shook his head.
“…You’re carrying our daughter.” His eyes softened. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more.” You laughed through the sudden sting of tears. “You’re only saying that because I haven’t yelled at you today.”
“I do.” He smiled beneath the mask before quietly removing it.
Then he pulled you into him. Bare skin against bare skin.
Three long months since he’d held you without body armor or uniforms between you. He wrapped his arms around your back as carefully as he could, resting his cheek atop your head while breathing you in.
Home. Shampoo. Laundry detergent. The faint lavender lotion you’d been using.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered. You smiled against his chest. “I missed you more.” You rested a hand over your stomach. “…She missed you too.”
Right on cue, a strong kick landed against Simon’s abdomen. He froze. Then laughed. “She’s awake now.” He crouched until he was level with your stomach.
“Hello, sweetheart. You looking after your mum?” Kick.
“No,” you answered immediately. “She’s been using my bladder as a trampoline.”
Simon nodded solemnly. “I see.” Another kick. “Already taking my side.” You pretended to gasp.
“Betrayed before she’s even born.”
The shower became less about getting clean and more about washing away three months apart. You worked shampoo through Simon’s hair while he stood quietly beneath the warm water, eyes never leaving your face.
“You’ve been doing a lot of that.”
“I’ve missed looking.” You smiled.
When it came time to wash yours, he gently massaged shampoo into your scalp, careful not to tug. “You know…” You looked over your shoulder. “…You’re going to have to shave me eventually.” His eyebrows lifted.
“So the doctors don’t make fun of me for being one hair less than Bigfoot himself.”
For the first time all day— Simon laughed.
A real laugh loud enough to echo off the shower walls “I’ve missed your jokes.”
“You were going to do it anyway.”
“I will.” He kissed your forehead.
“But now I’ll be laughing while I do.”
Dinner tasted better simply because he was home. Halfway through eating, you sighed dramatically. “My back.” Without a word, Simon stood, stepped behind your chair, and carefully slid both hands beneath your stomach, lifting just enough to take the weight off your lower back.
Your shoulders dropped. “Oh…”
You leaned back against him immediately. “I forgot what this felt like.” He smiled into your hair before peppering lazy kisses across your shoulder and neck.
The words were muffled against your skin.
You turned your head just enough to steal a kiss. He kept holding your stomach while you finished eating.
His free hand rested on your thigh beneath the table as he ate.
Small circles, steady, comforting.
You told him about every appointment he’d missed.
Every heartbeat, every ultrasound, the little hiccups your daughter had started getting.
“The pictures are on the fridge.”
His eyes immediately drifted toward the kitchen. “I’m looking at every one of them.”
After dinner, the dishes could wait. So could unpacking. So could everything else.
You both collapsed into bed before the sun had fully set. Simon curled carefully around you from behind, one hand spread over your stomach.
Within minutes, all two of you were asleep.
His paternity leave had been approved before the deployment even ended.
Three full months, twelve weeks.
Price had signed the paperwork himself and Simon already had a plan.
“The last month,” he explained one evening while assembling the crib, “I’ll go back one week on, one week off.” You looked up from folding tiny sleepers.
“So neither of you has to go from seeing me every day…” He tightened another screw. “…to suddenly not seeing me at all.” Your chest tightened.
“You’re already thinking that far ahead?”
You walked over and wrapped your arms around him as best you could. “You think of everything.”
Three weeks later, at thirty eight, just after midnight, you woke with an odd sensation. You hurried to the bathroom before realizing what had happened.
“Simon.” A sleepy grunt answered from the bedroom.
“Simon.” He sat upright immediately.
“I think…” You looked down. “My water just broke.”
His brain visibly stalled, for exactly two seconds. Then military training took over. “It’s time.”
You nodded. “I think so.”
He was already moving. Hospital bag, baby’s car seat, your overnight bag, his backpack.
Everything was exactly where the two of you had planned it would be.
He disappeared into the closet and returned holding the soft labor gown you’d picked out months ago. “Here.” You smiled.
A contraction stole your attention. You leaned against the bathroom counter until it passed. Simon stayed close enough to catch you if you stumbled.
“…Husband.” He smiled despite himself. “Right.”
Sweatpants, comfortable shirt.
“Makeup bag, Just in case I want pictures.”
“One of your shirts.” He nodded once. “Done.”
He helped you dress between contractions with infinite patience, never rushing, never making you feel like you were slowing him down.
When everything was loaded into the truck, he came back inside.
You looked at him, another contraction beginning. “…Not really.” He smiled gently.
Before you could protest, he scooped you into his arms and carried you to the truck as though you weighed nothing.
The drive to the base hospital was calm despite the urgency. One hand stayed on the steering wheel. The other found yours. “We’re okay,” he reminded you quietly.
“We’re okay.” You squeezed back.
By the time Simon parked outside Labor and Delivery, your contractions had settled into a rhythm that demanded your full attention. He rounded the truck before you could even think about opening the door yourself, helping you down carefully while keeping one arm around your waist.
Another contraction rolled through you. You gripped the front of his hoodie until it passed. “I’m beginning to regret agreeing to this.” His lips twitched.
“A bit late for refunds.” You laughed once before another contraction interrupted it. “…Not funny.”
The admitting nurse smiled as the two of you walked in. “First baby?”
You both answered at the same time. “Yes.”
Within minutes you were settled into a labor room overlooking the dark base. A nurse helped you change into the soft labor gown Simon packed while he unpacked the hospital bags with practiced efficiency, placing your toiletries in the bathroom, hanging up a change of clothes, and setting the baby’s tiny going-home outfit neatly beside the bassinet.
Monitors were placed gently against your abdomen. The rapid rhythm of your daughter’s heartbeat immediately filled the room. Simon looked toward the monitor. “Still showing off.”
The nurse smiled. “She’s looking very happy in there.”
After your initial examination, the obstetrician returned. “You’re having regular contractions, but your cervix hasn’t changed as much as we’d expect.”You frowned.
“We can continue waiting a little longer with the chance of sending you home to labor, or we can help labor along with Pitocin.”
You looked at Simon. “What do you think?” He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he looked at the doctor. “Benefits? Risks?”
The physician explained patiently that Pitocin often strengthens contractions and helps labor progress, while also requiring closer monitoring because contractions can become stronger and more frequent.
Simon listened carefully before looking back at you.“You’ve been contracting for hours already.” You nodded tiredly. “I’m exhausted.” He gently brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think we trust them.” You squeezed his hand. “…Okay.”
The medication began slowly. For a while, nothing seemed different. Then the contractions changed. They became stronger, longer, closer together.
You buried your face against Simon’s shoulder during one particularly intense contraction, gripping his forearm hard enough to leave crescents from your fingernails. “I’m sorry.”
He kissed your forehead. “For what?”
He looked down at the marks beginning to appear on his arm. “I’ll survive.”
He rubbed your lower back through every contraction, counted your breathing when you forgot how, held the water cup while you drank, and quietly reminded you how well you were doing every time frustration threatened to take over.
Eventually another contraction left you trembling.
“I can’t…” You looked at him with tears in your eyes.
“I don’t think I can keep doing this.”
He knelt beside the bed until you were looking directly at one another.
“I don’t want to be brave anymore.”
Another contraction began. He took both of your hands. “You just have to get through this one.”
A while later, after what felt like an eternity of asking the nurses when anesthesia would arrive, there was finally a knock at the door. The anesthesiologist stepped inside carrying a tablet. "Second Lieutenant Smith," he introduced himself, offering a curt nod. Simon returned it. "Lieutenant Riley." Smith began reviewing your chart before discussing pain management options.
You were exhausted by then, another contraction already building before he'd even finished speaking. "Well," he said with a small sigh, "if you can answer my questions between contractions, we'll get through this quicker."
The man's tone wasn't openly rude but it wasn't kind, either. Another contraction gripped you, forcing your eyes shut as you leaned heavily into Simon's shoulder. You tried answering anyway, your words catching as you focused on breathing. The anesthesiologist glanced at his watch. "I do need you to cooperate." Simon's jaw tightened beneath the mask. You were cooperating. You were in labor. There was a difference.
The lieutenant in him wanted to stand. Wanted to remind the man exactly who he was speaking to. Wanted to explain, in very clear terms, that his wife wasn't being difficult— she was bringing their daughter into the world.
Instead, Simon swallowed every bit of it. Not now. You needed the epidural far more than he needed to put the man in his place. He rested a reassuring hand against your back and answered only the questions you couldn't manage through the contractions. "She's allergic to penicillin."
“No previous reactions to anesthesia."
"Yes, she's been informed of the risks and benefits." The anesthesiologist barely acknowledged him before turning back to you. "I'll need you to stay very still while I place it."
Simon caught the impatience creeping into the man's voice. His own was calm. Ice cold. "She will." The room went quiet for a heartbeat. The anesthesiologist finally looked at him. Simon met his gaze without blinking. "Give her a moment," he said evenly. "She's having a contraction." It wasn't loud or threatening. It was simply a statement. The kind that didn't invite argument. Smith nodded once. "Of course."
When the contraction eased, Simon brushed damp hair away from your face. "Look at me, love." You did. "You don't worry about anything else." His hand remained wrapped around yours. "I've got the rest." You nodded weakly. "I know."
Simon stayed beside your head while the epidural was placed, one hand firmly wrapped around yours, speaking softly through every instruction, reminding you to breathe, counting with you when your focus slipped. Once it was over and the medication began taking effect, the tension slowly melted from your shoulders. "There she is," Simon murmured as the pain eased from your expression. "That's my girl." You let out the longest breath of the night. "So much better." He smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I preferred that face."
You laughed softly. "What face?"
"The one where you're not plotting murder." A sleepy smile tugged at your lips. "I still might." Simon glanced toward the now-silent anesthesiologist before looking back at you. "I'll get in line."
Smith finished documenting your chart and gathered his supplies before turning to leave. "Everything should be set now."
"Second Lieutenant." The room stopped. Smith turned back toward him. "Sir?" Simon slowly stood from the chair beside your bed. He wasn't imposing because of his height, though that certainly helped. It was the composure. The absolute stillness. "I'd like a word." Smith stepped back into the room.
“My wife has been in labor for hours." His voice never rose. "She's exhausted. She's in pain. She's answered every question you've asked to the best of her ability." Smith straightened instinctively. "I understand, sir."
"No," Simon replied evenly. "I don't think you do." Silence settled over the room. "You addressed her as though she was inconveniencing you."
"That wasn't my intention."
"I didn't ask what your intention was." Another pause. "I care about your bedside manner." Smith swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"You will not speak to my wife that way again."
The words weren't emotional. They were matter-of-fact. An order delivered with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "If she's in too much pain to answer immediately, you wait. If she needs a moment, you give her one. She deserves the same respect every patient in this hospital deserves." Smith's posture became noticeably more formal. "You're right, sir." Simon held his gaze another second before giving a single nod. "Good."
Smith looked toward you. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I could have handled that better." You offered him a tired but appreciative smile. "Thank you." With one final nod, the anesthesiologist quietly left the room. The door clicked shut behind him.
You looked over at Simon. "…You pulled rank."
"For me?" He looked genuinely confused by the question. "Of course." You smiled, your eyes growing watery. "I love you." He leaned down, brushing his forehead against yours. "I know." A beat passed. "I love you too.”
The nurses checked on you often, adjusting medications and helping you change positions. Simon never wandered farther than the chair beside your bed. Whenever someone asked a question while another contraction demanded your attention, he answered only after looking to you first. If you nodded, he spoke. If you shook your head, that was the end of the discussion. "No" was always respected.
As morning light began filtering through the blinds, the obstetrician smiled. "I think it's finally time." The room quietly became more focused. More people entered. Equipment was checked. Simon moved beside your shoulder without being asked. "You ready?" he whispered.
“No.” He smiled beneath his mask. "…Me neither."
Together, with encouragement from the medical team, you worked through the final stage of labor. It was exhausting, overwhelming, and unlike anything either of you had imagined, but Simon never let go of your hand.
Then—a cry. Strong and clear. Your daughter's first protest at entering the world. Everything else disappeared. Tears blurred your vision before you even saw her. "There she is," the doctor said warmly. "There she is."
Simon cried openly. He didn't try to hide it. He simply laughed through the tears as your tiny daughter was placed onto your chest, warm and squirming, immediately settling as she heard your voices. "Hello, sweetheart," you whispered. Simon rested one shaking hand over both of you. "Hi, little girl." The room seemed to soften around the three of you.
The obstetrician waited before clamping the umbilical cord, allowing it to stop pulsing first because both you and your daughter were doing well. When asked if he'd like to cut the cord, Simon looked at you. You smiled. "Go on." He accepted the scissors with hands steadier than he'd expected. One careful cut. Then he was immediately back beside you.
Your daughter never left the room. Every assessment the nurses could safely perform happened right there beside your bed while Simon watched attentively, asking quiet questions and memorizing every tiny detail. She wrapped impossibly small fingers around one of his and he was done for. "You've got me," he murmured with a watery laugh. "I know." You smiled sleepily. "So does she."
Looking between his wife and newborn daughter, Simon realized something he had never allowed himself to imagine during years of deployments and uncertainty.
Three days after bringing your daughter home, your little family had finally begun settling into something that resembled a routine. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it was yours.
You’d insisted the team come over. “They’re family,” you’d told Simon while feeding your daughter in the middle of the night. He’d been hesitant at first. Three-day-old babies didn’t have much of an immune system, and the protective part of him wanted to keep the two of you hidden away from the rest of the world for another month. But you knew these men. Price, Soap, and Gaz weren’t just teammates. They’d become brothers to Simon, and over the years they’d become family to you, too.
Eventually, Simon relented. “They wash their hands.”
“They’re not holding her if they’re sick.”
“They’re taking their boots off.”
You smiled. “They know better.”
As it turned out, while you and your daughter had been recovering in the hospital, Simon had quietly enlisted the team for another mission: deep-cleaning the house. Not that it needed it. The place had already been spotless, Simon Riley wouldn’t have it any other way, but every floor had been mopped again, every countertop disinfected, laundry folded, groceries restocked, and even the nursery dusted one more time. Soap had complained the entire time. “Your house is cleaner than the bloody operating theatre!” Simon had simply handed him another rag. “You missed a windowsill.” Price and Gaz had laughed while Soap muttered colorful Scottish insults under his breath and kept cleaning anyway. It was their gift to you. Though Simon privately considered it only the beginning.
A few hours after arriving home from the hospital, you found yourself tucked comfortably beneath your duvet, your daughter sleeping peacefully against your chest. Her tiny breaths warmed your skin as she dreamed, completely unaware of how thoroughly she’d already changed the lives around her. The knock at the front door echoed softly through the house. You smiled. “They’re here.”
From downstairs, Simon’s voice drifted up the hallway. “Come in.” Soap answered first.
“I’ve washed my hands twice, Lieutenant.”
“I knew you were gonna say that.”
Gaz laughed. “I brought hand sanitizer.”
Price chuckled quietly. “I expected nothing less.” You couldn’t help but laugh.
A moment later, Simon stepped into the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him. “They’re ready whenever you are.” He crossed the room and leaned over to kiss your forehead before looking down at the tiny girl sleeping on your chest. “So peaceful.”
“For now.” He smiled knowingly. “She gets that from you.” You rolled your eyes. “I’ve heard stories.”
“…Then they’re probably accurate.”
He carefully lifted your daughter into his arms with practiced confidence, supporting her head as though she’d always belonged there. While he rocked her gently, he helped you ease yourself out of bed. “Slowly.”
“I literally just had a baby.”
“I know.” He steadied you until you found your footing before helping you change into one of his oversized T-shirts and a comfortable pair of lounge sweats. “You look beautiful.”
“You can be both.” He swaddled your daughter again, checking the blanket twice before giving a satisfied nod. “There.”
Together, you made your way downstairs. Walking still pulled at muscles your body was only beginning to heal, but compared to yesterday, it was manageable. The moment you stepped into the living room, three pairs of eyes turned toward you.
Price stood first. “So good to see you, Sweetheart.” He pulled you into an incredibly gentle hug, mindful of every sore muscle, before stepping back. “How’re you holding up?”
He smiled. “That’s to be expected.” Gaz hugged you next. “You need anything, anything at all, you call. I mean it.”
“I know.” Finally came Soap, wrapping you in a careful embrace before stepping back with a grin. “You’ve officially made me an uncle.”
“You’ve officially become unbearable.”
“Already was.” You laughed. “Fair.”
The conversation drifted naturally while Simon disappeared into the kitchen to start dinner. He’d refused to let anyone else cook. “You’ve done enough. You had a baby.” That was the end of the discussion. The smell of garlic, rosemary, and roasted chicken soon drifted through the house.
Meanwhile, another conversation quietly unfolded in the living room. Years ago, after one particularly dangerous deployment, you’d sat around this very coffee table discussing wills and emergency contacts. It hadn’t been an easy conversation. But it had been necessary. If anything ever happened to both you and Simon, Price would become your daughter’s godfather. If something happened to Price, Soap. If, by some cruel twist of fate, it came to that, Gaz. It sounded complicated to anyone outside the military. To the five of you, it simply made sense. In their line of work, tomorrow was never guaranteed.
The silence broke when Simon returned carrying your daughter. Soap was already halfway out of his seat. “My turn?” Simon narrowed his eyes.
Soap immediately obeyed. Simon carefully settled the tiny bundle into his arms. The enormous Scotsman suddenly looked terrified.
“I’ve jumped out planes,” he whispered. “I’ve been shot. I’ve fought grown men.” He looked down at the tiny face sleeping peacefully against his arm. “…This is the scariest thing I’ve ever done.” You laughed. “Support her head.”
“I’ve got it!” Price leaned over to adjust Soap’s elbow by less than an inch. “There.” Soap looked offended. “I was close.”
“You were.” He stared down at her for another long moment before the biggest smile spread across his face. “What a bonnie bairn she is.”
The room fell quiet. It was strange, in the best possible way, watching men you’d only ever seen carrying rifles and breaching doors become impossibly gentle with someone who weighed barely seven pounds. Gaz accepted her next with surprising confidence. “Hello there, sweetheart.” She yawned. His face softened instantly. “I think she likes me.” “You’ve known her six seconds,” Soap protested. “Long enough.”
Finally, Simon placed her into Price’s waiting arms. The captain looked down at her. For several seconds he said nothing. His thumb brushed softly across her impossibly tiny hand. She instinctively wrapped her fingers around his. Price’s lips parted. His eyes shimmered.
He blinked once. Twice. Then quickly looked toward the ceiling. “Dust.”
Soap snorted. “What dust?”
Gaz smiled knowingly. “Looks clear to me.” Price sniffed. “Must’ve drifted in.” No one called him out. Not really. There was too much understanding in the room for that.
A few moments later, Gaz leaned over the blanket, studying your daughter’s face with exaggerated concentration. “Hmm.”
“What?” you asked. He looked at you, “She’s got your nose.” You smiled. “Really?”
“Thank God.” The room burst into laughter. From the kitchen, Simon called out without missing a beat, “I heard that.” Gaz winced. “…Worth it.”
Simon appeared in the doorway carrying a wooden spoon. “I happen to like my nose.” Soap looked between the two of you before shrugging. “I’ll side with Gaz on this one.” Even Price, still discreetly wiping at suspiciously watery eyes, nodded his agreement.
Simon sighed dramatically. “I’ve been betrayed in my own house.” You smiled as he leaned down to kiss the top of your head before looking at your daughter. Quietly, so only you could hear, he murmured, “She’ll grow into whichever nose she gets.” You looked up at him. “I think she’ll be perfect either way.” He smiled. “I know she will.”
For the first time in years, there were no deployment dates hanging over anyone’s head. No mission brief waiting on the table. No urgency. Just dinner in the oven, laughter filling the living room, three men hopelessly in love with the newest member of their family, and Mr. And Mrs. Riley watching it all with one simple realization.
This was the life he’d spent years believing he would never deserve. Now, somehow, it was both of yours.
