The sound of soft whimpers stirred you awake.

A warm weight was already wrapped around your waist — Dooshik, still half-asleep, groaning low in his throat as your baby’s cries grew louder from the other room.

“I got him,” you whispered, starting to sit up.

But his arm only tightened. “No. Let me.” His voice was gravelly, still deep with sleep, and kind of sexy in that lazy-morning way. “You barely slept.”

Before you could protest, he was already out of bed, barefoot and shirtless, his tattoos faded slightly in the morning light. You watched as he padded down the hall, then came back a few minutes later with your baby cradled against his chest — small fists curled, little sleepy sniffles escaping.

“Shhh, pretty boy. Daddy’s got you,” he murmured.

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding your baby like he was made of crystal. And he was good at it now. You’d seen him fumble and panic in the beginning — but now?

Now he rocked him gently while glancing at you with that crooked smile.

“Looks just like you,” he said, stroking your baby’s cheek. Then he smirked. “Unfortunately.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it easily.

Later, you were in the kitchen making breakfast, baby monitor on the counter. Dooshik came up behind you, arms slipping around your waist. He buried his face in your neck, kissing your skin once, twice, softly.

“You’re doing good, babe. Like… really good.”

“You too,” you whispered. “I didn’t think you’d be the kind to change diapers.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t think I’d love anyone like this, either.”

And with that, he turned the stove off, gently pulled you to sit on the counter, and kissed you like the world was quiet — like it was just you, him, and the tiny boy asleep in the next room.