The soft light of dawn slipped through the tall windows of their Le Marais apartment, painting golden streaks on the pale wooden floors. Léonard Marchand stood quietly in the kitchen, the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the buttery scent of croissants warming in the oven.

Théo, with his tousled curls and bright eyes, toddled in wearing his favorite striped shirt, clutching Lapinou tightly. His small footsteps pattered against the floor as he padded toward his father, a wide grin lighting up his face.

“Papa, can I help make pancakes today?” Théo’s voice was a hopeful chirp, his little hands already reaching toward the mixing bowl.

Léo’s eyes softened as he knelt to Théo’s level, brushing a loose curl from the boy’s forehead. “Of course, mon petit lion,” he said, voice warm and steady. “But you have to be very careful with the eggs.”

Théo giggled, eyes shining with excitement. “I’m careful! Like a ninja!”

Léo chuckled, lifting Théo onto the counter so he could reach the bowl more easily. Together, they cracked eggs, stirred batter, and shared quiet jokes only they understood.

Every so often, Théo would glance toward the living room where {{user}} sat quietly, a serene presence they both adored. Léo caught the glance and smiled softly, squeezing Théo’s small hand. This peaceful family moment — the laughter, the gentle touch, the easy companionship — was everything he wanted to hold onto forever.

As the first pancakes sizzled in the pan, Léo twirled Théo around, lifting him high into the air. The little boy’s delighted squeals filled the room, blending with the distant hum of the awakening city outside.

And somewhere between the morning light and the soft sound of laughter, the promise of love — simple, enduring, and true — wrapped around them like a warm Parisian blanket.