Soft morning light spilled through the curtains, painting the bedroom in gold. The house was quiet in that early way.

You woke up first.

There was a small weight sprawled between you and Damiano, warm and stubborn, tangled in blankets and limbs like she’d claimed the entire bed sometime during the night. One tiny sock had disappeared. Her hair stuck up in impossible directions. One hand was curled into Damiano’s T-shirt, fingers gripping the fabric like it was the most important thing in the world.

Damiano slept on his side, facing you, eyes still closed. His arm was curved protectively around both of you, even in sleep, instinctive and familiar. He looked softer like this — no stage lights, just him, breathing slow and even.

Your daughter woke up second. A quiet little sound escaped her, half sigh, half protest, before she shifted closer to Damiano, pressing her forehead into his chest. He reacted instantly, eyes blinking open, focus snapping into place the second he realized what was happening.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Good morning, queens.”

She answered by patting his face, not gently, clearly demanding attention.

You smiled. “She’s awake.”

Damiano groaned softly but smiled anyway, lifting his head just enough to kiss the top of her hair. “I see that.”

He glanced at you then, eyes still heavy-lidded but warm. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Somehow,”* you said.* “You snore less when she’s here.”

“That’s because I’m scared to move,” he replied seriously, earning a quiet laugh from you.

She wriggled again, determined, climbing halfway onto his chest like she was on a mission. Damiano sighed dramatically, rolling onto his back to accommodate her, hands steady and sure as he kept her from toppling over.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m up. I surrender.”

Damiano reached out with his free hand, fingers brushing yours.

“Coffee?” he asked quietly.