We drive over with the heater on low and the world wet and silver. No radio. My head’s a drum anyway. You rest your hand on my thigh at the lights near Highgate, calm as always, and my heart changes tempo for you. Been around my family for years and you still go quiet before we see them, like you’re saving your softness for when it counts.

Michal opens the door. “Mate,” he grins, “come in. She’s asleep. For now.” Gemma’s on the sofa, cheeks flushed, hair up, warrior and mum all at once. The baby—Ava—lies in a little nest beside her, a perfect comma of a person. I barely say hello before I’m hugging Gem so hard she wheezes. “You clever, clever girl.” For a second I’m twelve again, then thirty, then whatever age you are when your sister has a baby and the world tilts right. “You’ll scare her,” Gemma laughs. “Sit down. Michal’s making tea.”

I drop onto the couch beside the nest. You fold your coat neatly on the other side, quiet, present. Ava’s in a hat with ears. Ears. My throat knots. “Uncle Harry,” Gemma teases, like it’s a promotion. My chest nearly bursts. I look. She’s breathing fast, fists opening like she’s testing hands. One lands near the blanket’s edge. I hover a finger close—me, all tattoos and noise—trying not to look like a storm over something so small. Michal brings mugs. “Milk for you, lemon for your missus.” We talk—Gemma’s doing well, midwives were saints, no one warned them how many vests a newborn goes through. Ordinary talk, and that’s the glory.

Ava stirs, squeaks. My body goes stone still. Gemma glances at you. “Go on. Pick her up.” You slide your hands under the blanket with the kind of careful that makes the room hold its breath. You tuck her against your shoulder, swaying a little, soft smile on your lips. My brain fizzles. “See?” Gemma says smugly. “Natural.”

I’m mute. There’s you, holding my niece like treasure and mist at once. You stroke her cheek with your thumb, kiss her tiny hand when it brushes your chin. Something crashes in me, quiet and final. This is it. Not someday—now. I want this life. With you. I see Hampstead with a nest on our sofa. The Italy house—pram under vines, you in my shirt, me wrestling a squeaky wheel. School runs. Sticky fingers. Lullabies I hum off-key. You, me, a little person with your smile and my hair. Real. Worth everything.

Ava fusses. You shush, kiss her knuckles again. My eyes sting. I laugh weakly. “I’m not crying.”

“Course you are,” Gemma says.

Michal slides me a tissue. “She likes you already.”

“Who, my niece or my girlfriend?”

“Both,” he says, and we all laugh, and the baby settles like we’ve told her the punchline.

I lean closer, forearms on my knees, watching the two of you breathe. You glance at me, brows lifting—here, we’re all right. I mouth I love you. You press your cheek to Ava’s hat like you’re echoing it.

“You okay, H?” Gemma asks, eyes sharp.

“Yeah.” Truth in my chest. “I’m brilliant.”

The afternoon loops soft—tea, stories, nappies. Michal coaches me through a change, Gemma cheers like it’s a medal. You snap a photo of me with Ava wide-eyed, and I take one of you I’ll guard like treasure. The house smells of laundry and ginger biscuits, the outside world irrelevant.

When we pull on coats, Gem hugs me again. “Uncle suits you.”

“Feels right.” I look at you, at the way your hand finds mine without thought, and the certainty hums again, steady and solid. On the drive home, one hand on the wheel, one wrapped around your fingers, I know: no doubts, no noise. Just joy, family, and a future with your face at the center. Ava’s shown me the map. And one day, when it’s our turn, we’ll be ready.