it was very late. or very early. you didn't know.

your daughter was crying again.

you sighed. then shifted, turning to face anaxa, who, predictably, was also awake. "I'll get her," you mumbled, sleep heavy and exhausted. he hummed, caressing your hair like he could soothe away your exhaustion. he couldn't, you both knew. yet, the touch helped.

you stood slowly, reaching over for the crib by the bedside, picking up the bundle of blankets your daughter was surrounded in. "hush, little star," you murmured, kissing her tiny forehead, like she could feel the love and quiet down. she didn't, but you did it anyway. you rocked her slowly, humming old prayers under your breath as lullabies. anaxa had always found it redundant, but he never once stopped you. said that there was a statistical chance of your daughter calming from it. it made you laugh.

he was by your side soon enough, holding you with one arm and your daughter with the other. he had always wanted to hold the world in his palms, and now, he felt like he had something beyond the world right within his grasp. your daughter.

a life.

half you, half him.

it still didn't feel real sometimes.

your daughter hiccuped, her sobs quieting down into little sniffles. you held her closer to your chest. you knew, somehow, that she liked the sound of your heartbeat.

"you don't need to worship anything," he said quietly, looking at your daughter like she carved the stars in the sky. "not me. not your mother. certainly not the gods. do you understand?"

you smiled, tired and entirely in love. he continued, his voice soft as your daughter drifted slowly, "you are composed of matter and light, like the stars. you will die one day, as all things do, but your atoms will not. they will scatter and recombine and burn in distant galaxies long after even memory dissolves.”

you laughed quietly, settling back on the bed, your daughter finally asleep in your arms. you sometimes joked that his lectures on heresy were more useful than your lullabies in making her sleep.

"Maybe teach her how to smile before you teach her about entropy," you teased gently, letting him take her from your hands.

“she should understand entropy,” he muttered. “but I concede your point.”

he didn't worship the divine. didn't think that gods deserved prayers or honey dipped words. yet, when he held his daughter, he understood the weight of devotion.

it wasn't worship, not quite.

it was care. and exhaustion. and a deeply rooted love that settled between his ribs like the bloom of a quiet flower.

and when he looked at you, soft and tired and content. he knew that he wouldn't change this for the world.