#dad!xavier

Caleb

He tries to be calm.

Really, he does.

You’re holding his hand—well, more like crushing it—and Caleb’s doing his best to be composed. He smiles at the nurse. Makes a dumb joke. Rubs your knuckles.

But the moment that grainy little flicker shows up on the screen?

The moment the room fills with the steady, quick-thudding whump-whump-whump of a heartbeat?

He stops breathing.

The grin drops off his face like it was never there.

His fingers go still.

His eyes are locked on the screen, wide and unblinking.

“That’s… that’s ours?” he whispers.

You nod, voice catching in your throat. “Yeah.”

And then he laughs.

A breathy, broken little sound—half-sob, half-hysterical wonder. Like his whole body can’t decide whether to melt or combust. He turns toward you, eyes shimmering.

“I didn’t—I didn’t think I could feel this much.”

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “You’re growing a whole person. Our person. That’s my kid in there. Our kid. I—”

He can’t finish the sentence.

He buries his face in your shoulder and laughs again, shaking a little.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says against your skin. “And they’ve already got my whole heart. I’m so screwed.”

You kiss the side of his head. “You’re not screwed.”

He pulls back, smiling through tears.

“No,” he says, looking at the screen again.

“I’m the luckiest bastard in the galaxy.”

Xavier

He’s quiet when the screen lights up.

Not his usual stillness. This is different.

His posture doesn’t shift. His expression barely changes. But you feel it—the way his hand tightens slightly around yours, the way his breath catches just a second too long.

And then the heartbeat comes through.

Whump-whump-whump.

Quick. Strong. Inarguably alive.

Xavier blinks once. His eyes lock on the grainy blur on the screen like he’s calculating a threat.

But there’s no threat.

Just something small. And safe. And yours.

“That sound…” he murmurs, voice low and careful, “is them?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He stares a moment longer, then lowers his gaze to your stomach—like he's only just realizing what’s been there this whole time.

“I thought I understood,” he says softly. “What this would be. I thought I was prepared.”

A pause. He shifts in his seat, fingers grazing the edge of the ultrasound photo the nurse just handed him.

“I wasn’t.”

Another silence.

Then, so softly you almost miss it:

“I’ll protect them. Always.”

He says it like a vow. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just fact.

Like this heartbeat rewired him.

You lean your head against his shoulder.

He doesn't speak again. Doesn’t need to.

He just keeps staring at the screen like he’s watching the future take its first breath.

Rafayel

He's already being too much before the machine even starts.

Kissing your hand like you’re royalty. Calling the OB “a vessel of the divine.” Whispering, “Are you ready, my muse?” in your ear like this is a movie premiere.

You roll your eyes. “Rafayel, it’s an ultrasound.”

He leans closer, eyes glowing with mischief. “And what is an ultrasound… if not the first brushstroke of our greatest masterpiece?”

You don’t have time to reply before the screen flares on—and just like that, he goes silent.

Utterly. Completely.

You turn to look at him.

He's frozen. Wide-eyed. One hand over his mouth like he just saw the face of a god.

The heartbeat kicks in.

Whump-whump-whump.

And he loses it.

“Oh,” he whispers, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Oh—look at them. Look.”

You do.

But Rafayel? He’s already gone.

Tears pool at the edges of his lashes—long and unblinking, like he’s terrified that blinking might erase the moment. One escapes down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it.

He grabs your hand with both of his, reverent. Desperate. “They’re so small,” he breathes. “And they’re ours. You—you made that. In you. I—we—”

He lets out this overwhelmed little laugh-sob that turns into a hiccup halfway through.

Then whispers, “I need to paint this.”

You blink. “Babe. It’s a blur of static and bean-shape.”

“Exactly. It’s pure. Abstract. Untouched by symbolism. It’s raw emotion, darling.”

You stifle a snort. “Are you crying?”

“I am feeling,” he snaps, brushing a tear away dramatically. “Leave me be.”

He presses a kiss to your wrist like he’s grounding himself in reality.

“Promise me something,” he murmurs.

You nod.

“When they’re born... remind me I loved them first. Before I even met them.”

You lean in. Kiss his cheek.

“I think they already know.”

Zayne

Zayne keeps his eyes on the screen the moment it flickers on.

His hand is holding yours, but it’s stiff. Careful. Like he’s trying too hard not to feel anything too early. Trying to stay clinical. Detached. Professional.

Like he’s just here to observe.

Then the sound hits.

Whump-whump-whump.

The heartbeat. Fast. Alive. Steady.

Your baby.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

You glance over, expecting some sarcastic comment. A critique. Something.

But his jaw is tight.

His eyes—sharp, exact, always calculating—are suddenly unreadable. Blank in the way only Zayne can manage.

He doesn’t blink.

Not even once.

“Zayne?” you whisper.

Nothing.

And then—

Quietly.

Like it slips out without permission.

“…It’s real.”

He exhales hard, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.

His fingers tighten around yours. Not painfully—but with intensity. Like if he lets go, it might all disappear.

“I’ve seen thousands of heartbeats,” he murmurs. “Monitors. Flatlines. Fibrillations. But this…”

He swallows. Looks down at your hand in his.

“I didn’t know how different it would feel when it’s… ours.”

There’s something cracked open in him now. Something bare.

You watch his throat move as he swallows again, hard.

Then, softer:

“I didn’t think I’d be scared.”

You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

He finally turns to you. His eyes are glassy, but he’s holding it in like always. You can see it—the quiet shaking underneath.

“I’m not scared of messing up,” he says. “I’m scared of how much I already love them.”

You lean in, rest your forehead against his.

“They’re going to be okay.”

He closes his eyes.

And lets himself believe it.

Sylus

Sylus is leaning against the wall like this is a business meeting and not the moment his entire future is about to implode.

Arms crossed. Mouth set. Watching the monitor with laser focus, like the image might suddenly sprout a threat he can neutralize.

Your hand is in his, resting on your belly. The gel’s cold. The nurse is smiling. Everything feels calm.

Until—

Whump-whump-whump.

The first heartbeat kicks in.

Sylus doesn’t move.

Then the nurse tilts her head. Frowns slightly. Adjusts the wand.

“Oh,” she says casually, as if she’s not about to detonate a bomb in the room. “There’s another.”

You blink. “Another what?”

She clicks something.

“There are two heartbeats.”

You stare at her. “As in—?”

“Twins,” she says, cheerfully. “You’re having twins.”

You whip your head toward Sylus.

Still frozen. Still unreadable.

Except for the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The subtle roll of his eyes. The very long blink like he’s internally rebooting.

Then, under his breath—just loud enough for you to hear:

“…I’m f*cking surrounded.”

You choke on a laugh. “Babe.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just rubs a hand down his face like the weight of responsibility has suddenly tripled.

Finally: “I agreed to one. One tiny parasite. We had a deal.”

You grin. “Babies don’t do contracts.”

He mutters something about renegotiating with the womb gods before slouching down in the chair beside you, staring at the screen like it personally betrayed him.

The nurse keeps talking—measurements, due dates, baby A and baby B—but he’s not hearing any of it.

He’s calculating. Strategizing. Probably already planning to fortify the nursery.

Then he turns to you. Deadpan. Quiet.

“I’m going to need more weapons.”

You squeeze his hand.

“More diapers, you mean.”

He scowls. You can see the crisis brewing behind his eyes. But he still lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like it’s instinct.

And then—very softly:

“…They’re gonna be so small.”

You nod. “And they’re yours.”

He leans back. Stares at the ceiling.

“God help me,” he mutters. “I’m gonna love them stupid, aren’t I?”

You smirk. “Already do.”

He groans.

But doesn’t let go of your hand.

Caleb

It starts with the socks.

You and your kid exchange a look over breakfast—just a slight twitch of the eyebrow, a smirk over toast—and Caleb should have known. He should have.

But he’s got stars in his eyes and jam on his fingers, and he’s too busy cutting your kid’s pancakes into perfect little hexagons to notice you’ve already swapped his socks.

They’re pink. With glitter hearts. And the words “#1 Trophy Husband” stitched in sparkly thread.

He puts them on without looking.

And then?

Operation: Bully Dad begins.

—

Phase One: Language Manipulation. You teach your kid to call him “Captain Cranky.”

Every time he sighs? “Okay, Captain Cranky.”

When he says no to dessert? “Ugh, classic Captain Cranky.”

He stares at you like you betrayed him. You just sip your coffee.

“I am not cranky,” he mutters.

From under the table: “You’re literally pouting right now, Cap.”

—

Phase Two: The Snack Swap. He reaches for his favorite protein bar in the pantry.

Finds a note instead.

"Too slow, Captain Cranky. We needed it more. For… missions"

He spins around.

You and your kid are already on the couch. Sharing it. Making dramatic yum noises.

“I swear to god, you two are a menace.”

You both say it at the same time: “A menace to CRANKY.”

—

Phase Three: The Betrayal. He finally gets a break. He’s lying on the floor with your kid on his chest, playing spaceship noises.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

Then your kid leans down and whispers: “Mommy says you talk in your sleep. About kissing her toes.”

His eyes FLY OPEN.

You’re across the room, hiding a smile behind a throw pillow. “I said what I said.”

He groans and drags both of you onto the floor with him. “Unbelievable. My own family.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He kisses your temple, then your kid’s forehead. “You have no idea.”

Xavier

It starts with a whisper war in the hallway.

You and your kid peek around the corner like spies on a stakeout—clipboard in hand, checklist ready.

Mission Objective: Tease Daddy Until He Short Circuits.

Xavier is at the kitchen counter, pouring cereal into the mug he always insists is “just more ergonomic than a bowl.” He’s wearing socks with swords on them. A gift from you. He takes them very seriously.

You circle “Target Acquired.”

—

Phase One: The Wrong Name Game. Your kid walks in casually.

“Hey, Xylophone.”

Xavier glances up. “Hello.”

No reaction.

Not even confusion.

So your kid tries again, louder. “I said Xylophone.”

Xavier frowns faintly. “Yes. I heard. Are we experimenting with sound-based naming systems today?”

You lose it from the hallway.

—

Phase Two: Sticker Warfare. This one’s your idea.

While Xavier’s reading on the couch, your kid climbs into his lap with all the innocence in the world—and slowly starts covering him in dinosaur stickers.

One on his cheek.

One on his temple.

A brontosaurus on his neck.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Finally, he blinks over his book. “Is there a… theme?”

“Jurassic Daddy,” you say sweetly, passing by.

He nods thoughtfully. “Very well.”

Doesn’t even take them off.

—

Phase Three: The Hidden Alarm. Your kid sneaks your phone into Xavier’s jacket pocket.

Sets a timer.

In two minutes, it’ll go off. Loud. In the middle of him doing birdwatching on the balcony.

He’s squinting into the trees, focused and serene—until a digital duck quack blares from his coat.

He freezes.

Then calmly pulls out your phone, stares at it like it’s a new lifeform.

“...Is this my punishment for using your mug?”

You and your kid high-five from the doorway.

—

That night, you’re brushing your teeth when you feel arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile at his reflection. “Even when we bully you?”

He hums. “Especially when you work as a team.”

He’s got a triceratops still stuck to his sleeve.

You leave it.

Rafayel

It starts because Rafayel wouldn’t let your kid put googly eyes on the blender.

A crime, truly.

So now?

You’re at war.

You and your mini-me form an unholy alliance before breakfast. The mission is clear: mess with Rafayel all day. Confuse him. Fluster him. Bring him to his knees (with love, obviously).

—

Phase One: The Sketch Swap He leaves his current canvas in the studio—half-finished, ethereal, probably titled Longing for Lemuria II: A Study in Violet Silence.

You and your kid sneak in.

When he returns, the dreamy mermaid now has a mustache. And laser eyes. And a speech bubble that says “My dad has stinky feet.”

He gasps like you physically struck him.

“You defiled my muse?!”

You shrug. “Consider it a collaboration.”

Your kid adds: “We made it better.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “You’re both going to artist jail.”

—

Phase Two: The Fashion Sabotage He goes to pull on his favorite pants—the flowy, artsy ones with the embroidered moons—and finds they’ve been replaced with hot pink yoga leggings from your drawer.

You: “I think you could rock them.”

Your kid: “Slay, bestie.”

He stares at the pants.

Then stares at you.

Then changes into them like a man on a catwalk.

But he’s muttering the entire time. “This is emotional abuse. I’m filing a glitter-based complaint.”

—

Phase Three: The Cookie Theft He opens the cabinet for his secret stash of lavender shortbread.

Finds an empty tin and a note inside:

“Stolen in the name of justice. Your blender crimes have consequences. —The Chaos Coalition”

He screams. Loudly. Then walks dramatically into the living room and collapses across the couch like a Victorian woman fainting on a chaise.

You toss him a goldfish cracker.

He glares.

Then eats it.

—

That night, he pulls you close in bed, head on your chest.

“I hope you both know,” he whispers, “that I am keeping a list.”

You run your fingers through his hair. “Of what?”

“Every emotional injury I sustained today.”

Your kid peeks in the doorway. “You forgot we replaced your shampoo with whipped cream.”

He gasps.

But honestly?

He’s never felt more loved.

Zayne

It begins when he finds his stethoscope floating in a bowl of cereal.

“Do you have a reason,” Zayne asks slowly, very calmly, “why my hospital equipment is now... infused with oat milk?”

Your child blinks up at him. “It was cold and needed a bath.”

You, from across the kitchen: “Honestly? Sound logic.”

He closes his eyes. Sets the stethoscope on the counter. Says nothing.

That was your warning shot.

—

Phase One: Renaming the Routine

You and your kid refuse to call anything by its normal name.

Zayne walks into the room, setting his laptop down with surgical precision.

You: “Look out. The Ice Cube Cometh.”

Your kid: “All hail Frost Daddy.”

Zayne: “I am literally holding your dental insurance forms.”

You both clap like he told a joke.

He blinks. Once.

“...What’s happening right now?”

—

Phase Two: The Hospital File Swap

He opens his neatly labeled folder before work.

Finds a glittery drawing titled “ME + MOMMY + FROST DAD = BESTIES FOREVER 💖”

Also, you’ve replaced his bio with:

“Zayne: World’s Coldest Softie. Will cry at piano music and is afraid of butterflies.”

He reads it. Stares at the paper.

Puts it back.

And takes it to work anyway.

—

Phase Three: Sticker Surgery

He showers. He gets dressed. He puts on his favorite button-down.

Then glances in the mirror—and freezes.

There’s a little cartoon Band-Aid sticker on his jawline.

Purple. With a smiley face.

You don’t even try to hide your laugh.

His jaw tics.

“I’ve conducted heart transplants with less sabotage than I face in this household.”

You pat his cheek. “And yet, you’re still so lovable.”

“Debatable.”

—

At bedtime, he’s halfway through folding laundry (into immaculate rectangles, obviously), when your kid leans against his side.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yes?”

“We bullied you good today.”

He pauses.

Then quietly nods.

“You did.”

You sit beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“But you liked it.”

“…No comment.”

You kiss the spot beneath his ear. “Tomorrow we’re calling you Doctor Cuddles.”

He exhales. Resigned. But soft.

“…Fine. But only inside this house.”

(You do not respect that boundary.)

Sylus

It starts before 9 a.m.

Sylus—warlord, tactician, red-eyed nightmare of the underground—walks into the living room fully dressed for a meeting with a black-market arms dealer.

Hair slicked. Suit sharp. Brooch in place.

You and your kid are waiting for him.

He stops. Narrow eyes. Tilt of the head. Suspicion.

You smile sweetly.

Your kid lunges forward.

And slaps a bright pink unicorn sticker onto his briefcase.

Dead center.

Sylus just… stands there.

“…Is this meant to be intimidation?”

You: “We’re marking our territory.”

Your kid: “Now the bad guys will know you have backup.”

He looks down at the sticker.

Then at you.

And says absolutely nothing.

But he takes the damn briefcase.

—

Phase One: Name Disrespect

He’s mid-hologram conference when your kid walks in, climbs into his lap, and announces to the entire Onychinus leadership:

“This is Mr. Grumpy Fangs. He doesn’t like it when I boop his nose.”

Sylus doesn’t even flinch.

Keeps talking about supply routes like there isn’t a giggling toddler poking his cheek on live cam.

Later?

He finds out you recorded it.

You send him the clip labeled:

“POV: You’re a villain and your child is your boss.”

He replies with one word:

“Traitor.”

Phase Two: Crow Brooch Chaos

You’re in the middle of folding laundry when your kid comes sprinting in, giggling with something clenched in one hand.

Minutes later, you hear Sylus’s voice—flat, deadly.

“Why… are there googly eyes on my crow?”

You don’t even look up. “Balance. Every villain needs a little whimsy.”

He turns to your kid. “Did you do this?”

“Team effort,” they chirp.

Sylus glares at the glittery-eyed brooch sitting on his chest.

Then sighs.

And doesn’t take it off.

Until hours later.

(He leaves it on his desk. Keeps looking at it.)

Phase Three: Tactical Sabotage

He walks into the war room.

Finds the giant wall map—his map—covered in crayon scribbles.

He blinks.

“Did someone… add butterflies to the Northern quadrant?”

Your kid: “It needed joy.”

You: “And balance.”

He stands there in silence.

Then mutters: “You’ve both become a security threat.”

You blow him a kiss.

That night, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, tie loose.

You crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. “Did we push you too far today?”

He grumbles something unintelligible.

Then rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him slow. “We know.”

He exhales.

“…You’re not going to stop, are you?”

“Nope.”

Your kid shouts from the hallway: “TOMORROW YOU’RE GETTING GLITTER STICKERS!”

He closes his eyes. Bends his head to your shoulder.

And mutters:

“I should’ve stayed in the shadows.”

Caleb

It’s 3:42 AM.

You’re barely awake—draped in Caleb’s old flight hoodie, fuzzy socks mismatched, hair a mess. Your baby’s been fussing for over an hour, and the soft whines from the bassinet are just starting to edge toward a full-blown meltdown.

You don’t even make it out of bed.

Because Caleb’s already there.

You feel the mattress shift, the soft pad of bare feet, the faint rustle of fabric as he leans over the bassinet. Then—

“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, voice so gentle it cracks your heart open. “C’mon, lovebug. You’ll wake Mama.”

He says it like Mama is royalty.

He scoops up the baby with practiced ease—cradles them against his broad chest, one hand patting their back, the other supporting their head with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for ancient artifacts or handwritten love letters.

You watch, half-lidded, as he starts pacing the room barefoot.

He’s wearing soft cotton sleep pants and nothing else. Dog tags glint faintly under the moonlight seeping through the curtains. His hair is messy. His eyes are tired.

But none of that matters when your baby whimpers and he starts humming.

A melody you don’t recognize—slow, a little sad, sweet in the way old lullabies are. He sways as he walks, murmuring words you can’t quite make out.

You think you hear:

“You’ve got Mama’s nose…”

And:

“You’re already perfect. I’ll protect you forever. No matter what.”

Eventually, the baby settles. Caleb’s still moving—slow, endless loops around the room like he’d walk forever if it meant peace for both of you.

And then?

He comes back.

Leans down to kiss your temple first—soft and lingering—then lays the baby carefully between the two of you in the co-sleeper.

You’re half-asleep when you feel the weight of his arm slide around your waist.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers against your neck. “I’ve got you both.”

And you believe him.

Because he’s Caleb. And he always does.

Xavier

It’s late.

Too late.

The kind of hour where the world feels paused—still, heavy, suspended in moonlight.

You’re curled up on the couch in the quiet dark, cradling your baby against your chest. The nightlight glows dim in the corner, casting soft shadows across the living room. There’s a blanket draped around your shoulders. You’re swaying gently, murmuring something soft and sleepy.

But your eyes are fluttering shut.

You don’t even hear the door open.

Xavier steps in without a sound.

He’s still in his gear—jacket open, blade strapped to his back, boots silent on the floor. His hair’s a mess from wind and mission grime, and his shoulders are tense from too many hours moving through dangerous spaces.

But the moment he sees you?

Everything stills.

He crosses the room in a few strides. Drops to one knee in front of you—like a knight, like a sinner, like a man who can’t stop needing you close even when he’s exhausted.

You blink awake as his hand brushes over yours.

“You should be sleeping,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “She wouldn’t settle.”

His eyes drop to the baby nestled in your arms, now sleeping soundly. His jaw clenches—not in frustration. In awe.

He leans forward—careful, deliberate—and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another, just above your brow.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

You hesitate. He sees it.

“I washed up outside,” he adds, voice barely above a breath. “I’m clean. I promise.”

You nod, and he lifts the baby from your arms with heartbreaking care—like he’s holding something sacred. His hands are calloused. Steady. Gentle. He cradles her close to his chest, one hand splayed protectively over her tiny back.

And then he just… stands there.

In the living room. Rocking back and forth. Saying nothing.

He doesn’t speak much—not about his love, not about the aching protectiveness in his chest—but his actions are poetry.

His eyes stay on her face like he’s memorizing every blink, every breath. When she stirs, his voice breaks the silence, low and soft:

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

You watch as he walks the room in slow loops, quiet and constant.

When he finally comes back, he lays her down in the bassinet and turns to you.

He doesn't ask if you're okay.

He just gathers you into his arms and pulls you into his lap on the couch—your body curled against his chest, your face tucked under his chin.

“Sleep,” he says.

And you do.

Because when Xavier says he’s here—he means it.

Rafayel

It’s nearly 2:30 in the morning.

The studio’s dim, lit only by the soft flicker of string lights and the distant glow of the moon bleeding through the stained-glass window he swears wasn’t always cracked.

You’re half-asleep on the old velvet couch, wearing one of his oversized button-downs and curled under a blanket that still smells like him—smoke, lavender, paint.

Your toddler is curled up on your chest, drooling peacefully, one chubby fist tangled in your hair.

And Rafayel?

He’s sitting on the floor.

Cross-legged. Shirtless. Covered in gold leaf and paint smudges.

Sketching.

You don’t know how long he’s been at it, but there are at least six versions of you sprawled around the floor, each more unhinged than the last—some romantic, some ridiculous. One with you wearing a crown made of snack wrappers. One where the baby is glowing like a celestial being. One where he’s asleep in your lap, drooling.

(“For realism,” he mumbled when you pointed it out.)

He looks up and catches your gaze before you can pretend to be asleep again.

“Caught you,” he says, voice a little too loud for the hour. “Can’t sleep without me anymore, can you?”

You groan softly, not bothering to deny it.

He grins and sets his sketchpad down. Crawls across the floor like a lazy jungle cat and presses a kiss to your bare knee.

Then another.

Then a third, way too high up your thigh.

“Rafayel,” you warn.

He laughs into your skin.

“Okay, okay,” he says, pushing himself up beside you. “You win. For now.”

He curls around you on the couch, nuzzles his nose into your neck, and gently adjusts the blanket so it covers all three of you—his long arm curling around your waist and your baby like you’re both his personal treasures.

You hear his breath catch when the baby sighs in her sleep and curls instinctively closer.

“Do you think she dreams?” he whispers. “Do you think babies dream of past lives?”

You hum. “Probably not.”

“She’s ours,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “So if she does, she’s dreaming of color. Of brushstrokes. Of the way you laugh when I say I’d paint the moon just to match your skin.”

You roll your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He grins. “Neither do you. That’s why I love you.”

You fall asleep in his arms to the feeling of his fingers trailing over your hip, sketching shapes into your skin he’ll try to remember later.

When he finally dozes off, he dreams of nothing but you.

Zayne

It’s just past midnight.

The house is silent except for the faint whir of the baby monitor and the occasional rustle of sheets as you shift beside him.

Zayne’s lying flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes wide open—like sleep is something that’s just out of reach. Again.

You roll over, still half-asleep, and reach for him without even opening your eyes.

He exhales softly. That sound that always comes out when he thinks you’ve caught him thinking too much.

“Can’t sleep?” you mumble against his chest.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him for a second.

He never sleeps easily. Not when there are scans to review. Charts to double-check. Or, more often than not, you and your daughter to hover over protectively when you’re both too peaceful to notice.

You shift closer, throwing a leg over his, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmur. “Thinking too loud.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand just comes up to rest on the small of your back, warm and grounding.

“I keep hearing her cough,” he finally admits. “Twice. It was faint. Could be nothing. Could be—”

“Zayne.”

“I know.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your spine.

“I just… I’ve never had anything like this,” he says. “Not really. A house. A family. Something I could lose.”

You lift your head, blinking at him in the dark. His jaw’s tight. His brows drawn. Even now, he’s holding everything too close to his chest.

You reach up and cup his face.

“You’re not going to lose us,” you say.

“But I don’t know how to stop trying to prevent it. I don’t know how to relax.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny whine over the monitor—just a sleepy noise—but Zayne’s already moving before you can stop him.

You follow him down the hallway.

In the dim nursery, she’s sound asleep again, thumb in her mouth, little fist curled around the corner of her bunny blanket.

Zayne stands there for a long moment, watching her.

And then—surprising even himself—he reaches into the crib and lifts her gently into his arms. Just to feel her close. Just to make sure.

You step up beside him, arms sliding around his waist.

He kisses the top of her head.

Then yours.

When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper:

“She looks like you when she sleeps.”

You smile.

“She snores like you.”

His lip twitches, just barely. “She’s perfect.”

You press your head to his shoulder. “So are you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But when you’re all curled back in bed—your daughter nestled between you, your leg tangled with his again, his hand wrapped tightly around your fingers—you feel it.

That quiet shift.

Zayne doesn’t sleep much.

But when he does?

It’s only like this.

With you.

Sylus

It’s past 2 a.m.

The house is quiet—but not asleep.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, still in your robe, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling on the side table. The nursery light is off, save for the warm glow of the star projector pulsing gently across the ceiling. Two soft little heartbeats breathe slow and steady in the twin bassinets by the wall.

And Sylus?

He hasn’t moved in over an hour.

Still shirtless, dark sweats low on his hips, he sits in the old armchair by the window—broad shoulders silhouetted in gold, silver hair tied messily back. One twin lies draped against his bare chest, asleep with a hand tangled in the crow pendant Sylus never takes off. The other had fussed, and he calmed her with nothing but his heartbeat and a lullaby you’d never heard him sing before.

He’s holding both of them like the world might try to take them away.

And he’s watching the window like he’d burn that world down first.

You don’t say anything when you approach. You just cross the room quietly and kneel beside him, one hand smoothing along his thigh.

“I thought you’d gone back to bed,” he murmurs without looking.

You shake your head. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He finally turns to you. His expression is unreadable—but you see it in his eyes. The softness. The weight. The disbelief that he has something so precious now.

“She cried,” he adds, glancing down at the baby in his arms. “Then he did. Didn’t want them to wake you.”

“You didn’t have to stay the whole time.”

“I did.”

Simple. Unyielding. Sylus.

You smile and rest your chin on his knee, watching the twins rise and fall with his slow breathing.

He shifts one arm carefully, just enough to curl it around your back and pull you close—right there on the floor. His fingers drift to the nape of your neck. His voice is quieter now.

“You’re not allowed to leave me alone with them like this again,” he whispers. “I’ll get soft.”

You laugh softly, eyes warm. “You already are.”

He hums.

Then, after a pause: “They make me want to be good.”

You look up. “You are good.”

“No. I’m careful. With you. With them.” He looks down at the sleepy weight in his arms. “That’s different.”

You don’t push it. You just nuzzle closer, his warmth sinking into your skin as the stars dance across the nursery walls.

Eventually, the baby in his arms yawns. He watches her like she’s a secret no one else gets to know.

“They’re safe with me,” he says, barely audible.