The room is dark, the only sound the gentle hum of the machinery outside. Feyd-Rautha lies beside his wife, the weight of sleep beginning to settle in. Suddenly, a faint cry cuts through the stillness—soft, tired.

The kids are awake.

He shifts, half-conscious, listening. The cry comes again, a little more persistent this time. His eyes flicker open, then glance over to his wife.

She’s still asleep.

He’s about to turn back to rest when he hears it again—this time, the unmistakable sound of a small foot hitting the floor. One of them is getting up.

With a soft groan, Feyd slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. It’s probably just a bad dream.

He quietly slips out of bed and walks toward the children’s room. The faint glow from the hall lights the way.

Inside, he sees his one-year-old son standing in his crib, tiny hands clutching the bars. Just needs comforting.

Feyd scoops him up gently, and the boy immediately quiets, snuggling into his chest. He smiles softly. Such a little thing.

As he holds him, Feyd looks toward his daughters, both sound asleep. Maybe it’s just the growing pains.