#soft!li

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.