Leon S. Kennedy

The front door opened with a soft click, and Leon stepped inside, careful to close it quietly behind him. The house was dim, lit only by the warm glow of a lamp in the living room and the faint nightlight filtering down from the nursery upstairs. He stood in the entryway for a moment, letting the silence wash over him, letting the tension of the day drain from his shoulders.

He hung his uniform jacket on the hook by the door, kicked off his boots, and padded quietly through the house. The kitchen was clean, you'd obviously taken care of the dishes before heading upstairs. A bottle warmer sat on the counter, a half empty mug of tea beside it. The living room was scattered with the quiet evidence of new parenthood: a burp cloth draped over the arm of the couch, a pacifier on the coffee table, a baby blanket folded neatly on the recliner.

He smiled. It still hit him sometimes, the reality of it all. He was a father. A man with a family of his own.

He made his way upstairs, his footsteps soft on the carpet. The nursery door was slightly ajar, and a sliver of light spilled into the hallway. He pushed it open gently and stopped in the doorway.

You were in the rocking chair, your head tilted back, your eyes closed. In your arms, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, was your daughter, two weeks old, tiny and perfect, with a tuft of dark hair and her mother's nose. She was asleep, her little chest rising and falling with the rhythm of baby dreams, her tiny fingers curled around your thumb.

You looked exhausted. Beautiful, but exhausted. The dark circles under your eyes told the story of sleepless nights and endless feedings, of a body still healing and a heart overflowing with love. Leon felt a pang of guilt, he'd been working late again, covering shifts for a colleague who was sick. He should have been here. He should have been helping.

But he was here now. He crossed the room quietly, his heart swelling with a tenderness he still wasn't used to feeling. He knelt beside the rocking chair, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You stirred, your eyes fluttering open. When you saw him, a tired smile spread across your lips. "Hey." he whispered.

Leon looked at his daughter, his daughter, the words still felt strange and wonderful, and felt his chest tighten with emotion. She was so small. So fragile. So completely dependent on the two of you for everything.

"I can take over," he said. "You go to bed. Get some real sleep."