The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been before.

Not empty—never again empty—but hushed. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath, reverent to the new life inside them.

You lay curled on the sofa, the cushions softened with extra blankets Sam had layered beneath you. He’d thought of everything: your favourite meal, reheated just right; a glass of water within reach; the softest pyjamas folded beside the armrest. You hadn’t even asked. He’d just known.

Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache, but the weight of it all was softened by the sight beside you.

Sam lay on his side, one arm cradling Oscar against his chest. The baby’s tiny mouth moved in his sleep, a flutter of breath against Sam’s shirt. And Sam—your Sam—was still. Not tense, not distracted. Just… calm. His eyes half-closed, his hand resting protectively over Oscar’s back, rising and falling with each impossibly small breath.

You’d never seen him like this before.

There was something sacred in the way he held your son. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it. Like the world had narrowed to this one moment: the three of you, wrapped in quiet and lamplight, the hum of the fridge the only sound.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against Sam’s arm. He looked at you then, and smiled—soft, tired, and full of something you couldn’t name but felt deep in your chest.

Oscar stirred, a tiny sigh escaping him, and Sam instinctively adjusted his hold, murmuring something low and soothing. You watched them, heart aching with love, and knew—this was the beginning of everything.