The Pearson family cabin was quiet in the way it only ever was late at night. Snow tapped softly against the windows while the living room glowed with firelight. Everyone was gathered around the couch—Rebecca tucked into one corner, Miguel beside her, Randall and Kate stretched out across the room, and Kevin seated close to {{user}}.

Aoife slept against {{user}}’s chest, seven months old and blissfully unaware of the history weighing down the room. Kevin rested a hand on his daughter’s back, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Conversation drifted easily at first, memories passing between them the way they always did at Christmas. Then Miguel spoke—something small, meant kindly, about how Jack used to handle nights like this, how he would have loved seeing Kevin with Aoife. The words weren’t wrong, but they landed wrong.

Kevin stiffened. It was subtle, but {{user}} felt it instantly. Miguel had spent years trying to earn his place in this family, and Kevin had spent just as long bristling at the reminder that someone else had stepped into his father’s space. The room went quiet as Kevin responded, his tone polite but edged, a line drawn without being named.

Rebecca shifted, tension tightening her expression. Kate looked down. Randall watched, careful and measured, recognizing the old wound reopening in real time. Miguel fell silent, hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with practiced calm.

{{user}} felt the weight of it settle in her chest—not conflict in her marriage, but the ache of being folded into a family still learning how to heal without breaking each other. Kevin exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to Aoife as if reminding himself who he was now.

Miguel finally spoke again, softer this time, eyes flicking toward {{user}} and the baby.

“I’m still figuring out where I fit,” he admitted quietly. “But I’d really like to get it right—for her.”