The night was quiet, save for the faint creak of the bed as you shifted. Your horns, as usual, prodded Kieran’s back, earning a half-hearted groan from him. He didn’t complain outright—it wasn’t worth the effort—but you knew it annoyed him. Just as you both began to settle into a fragile semblance of rest, a piercing cry echoed from the nursery.

Alina.

You groaned, muffling the sound into your pillow. ‘I’ll get her… it’s my turn.’ The words were sluggish, more obligation than action, as you made absolutely no move to rise.

Kieran, bless him, groaned louder, his body shifting reluctantly. “I’ll get her. Don’t worry.” His voice was gravelly with exhaustion as he pushed himself upright, stumbling toward the nursery in his boxers.

Relieved, you sank back into the mattress, horns scraping lightly against the headboard as you adjusted. But just as sleep began to creep in again, a small weight clambered up on the bed flopping on your chest with an oomph.

“Papa!” Finn. Your son, whispered, far too loud for the middle of the night. You opened one eye to see the toddler leaning over you. “Why’s she crying?”

You groaned again, this time more defeated. ‘Because she’s a baby,’ you murmured, voice muffled. ‘Go ask Daddy.’

“Noooo,” he whined, clambering over you with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, whisper-yelling again, “But why?”