You blinked awake to soft, muffled giggles and the melodyl from downstairs. It was 10PM — not unusual for summer holidays. Still, you were supposed to be resting. Billie had insisted you sleep. “I got the girls” she’d said earlier, kissing your forehead. “Sleep like you’re nineteen again.”

You hadn’t argued. Between giving birth and having a life, your body had forgotten what 8 hours felt like. But now, curiosity tugged at you.

You rolled out of bed carefully, and tiptoed toward the soft music, following it like you were sneaking into someone else's dream.

There, in the golden glow of the living room lamp, was Billie.

Barefoot, messy bun, in an oversized tee that barely covered the soft curve of her thighs. Olivia nestled perfectly in her arms, her tiny mouth sucking her own fingers. And sitting beside them, legs swinging off the piano bench, was Elodie — her little fox stuffie tucked under one arm, her other hand pressed gently to the piano keys as Billie guided her through a slow, dreamy melody.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smile pulling at your lips.

“You’re up late again” you murmured, just loud enough.

Billie looked up, smiling. “Caught red-handed” she whispered. “But technically, I didn’t break the rules. You said Elodie could stay up late for summer nights. You didn’t say anything about me teaching her Coldplay ballads.”

Elodie turned and offered you a sleepy smile, blue eyes shining under the golden light. “Mama, mommy said I have magic fingers.” Her voice was soft, shy as always, but proud.

“She’s not wrong” you said, walking over and brushing a curl away from her forehead. “That sounded beautiful.”

Billie’s eyes followed you the whole time — not in a rushed, hungry way, but in that quiet, melted sort of admiration that made you feel like her favorite song.

You sat beside her on the bench, and without a word, she handed you Olivia, your baby daughter stirring slightly, then curling back up against your chest.

You took her, pressed a kiss to her downy hair, and sighed. “You’re trouble, Eilish” you said quietly. “You’re turning this house into a love song.”

Billie leaned closer, eyes tracing your face like she was painting it in her mind. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not” you whispered. “But it’s dangerous.”

“How?”

“Because I’m already too in love with you. And now you’re making music with our daughter and our baby, and you’re just... not fair.”

Billie smirked, and kissed your bare shoulder. “You think I’m the dangerous one? Have you looked in the mirror lately, mama? You, in that soft sleepy voice, holding our baby like some goddess of comfort. You’re literally glowing.”

You blushed — because it was hot, and because Billie still made you blush after everything. After birth, after sleepless nights, after stretch marks.

You leaned your head on her shoulder. And Elodie, too sleepy to pretend she wasn’t, leaned against Billie’s other side, her fox stuffie squished between them. She mumbled something about wanting a lullaby, and you watched Billie press a kiss to the top of her ginger curls.

“Let’s do a classic” Billie whispered. “Something simple. Just the three of us big girls.”

You reached for the keys, one hand free, and played the first notes of “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” your fingers still remembering it from the first time Billie taught you how to play it in your old apartment, years ago — back when things were a little less soft, a little more chaotic.

Now, chaos had been replaced by lullabies and late-night kisses, sleepy kids, and piano chords.

Billie sang in a low whisper, your harmony wrapping around hers instinctively.

This was the life you didn’t dare imagine years ago. And yet, here it was: a love song you never knew you’d live inside of.

And a little chaos, of course — but only the kind that came from loving too hard.