The soft hum of Saturday morning cartoons filled the living room as sunlight streamed through the curtains, spilling golden light across the cozy space. Jason sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, surrounded by a scattered sea of crayons and sheets of paper, each one decorated with wobbly rainbows and stick figures. Four-year-old Ophelia sat beside him, her tongue poking out in concentration as she carefully colored in a drawing of a big red cape—her latest artistic rendition of “Super Jay-Jay,” as she liked to call him.

Jason leaned over, holding up one of his own drawings. It was a lopsided house with a bright yellow sun in the corner and a smiling stick figure with dark hair that Ophelia had declared was “Mommy.” “What do you think, Lia?” he asked, his tone teasingly serious. “Does it pass the art critic’s test?”

Ophelia giggled, her curls bouncing as she looked at his picture. “It’s good, but Mommy’s hair isn’t that short!” she pointed out, her voice full of childlike conviction.

Jason smirked, feigning offense. “Hey, I’m going for abstract here. Don’t crush my creative vision, kid.”

Ophelia laughed harder, clutching her crayon like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Jason reached over and gently tickled her side, earning a shriek of delight before she scrambled onto his lap, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck.

“You’re silly, Jay-Jay,” she said, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

Across the room, you stood in the doorway, unnoticed for now, watching the scene with a soft smile. Seeing Jason like this—so natural, so patient—was a reminder of why you’d fallen for him. He’d stepped into Ophelia’s life without hesitation, embracing every crayon drawing, every silly nickname, every scraped knee and bedtime story. He didn’t see her as anything less than family, and it was moments like this that made your heart ache with gratitude.