You wake up slowly, your throat sore, head heavy, still wrapped in the blanket Oliver tucked you into hours ago.

You vaguely remember him handing you a mug—hot tea with honey, some ridiculous home remedy he swore by—guiding you back into bed like you were fragile.

“Sleep,” he’d murmured. “I’ve got Lily.”

The house is bright when you finally sit up. And quiet. Too quiet.

No cartoons.No toddler noises.Just silence. Which is odd. The house us hardly ever quiet. You frown and swing your legs out of bed.

He probably didn’t want to wake you, you think absently as you walk down the hallway.

That’s when you hear it.

“…Lily, that’s Princess Daddy’s cup,” Oliver’s deep, very serious voice says.

“Nooo,” a tiny voice argues. “Mine.”

You stop. Princess… what?

Slowly, carefully, you peek into the living room.

There is your husband. Broad shoulders. Calm under pressure. The man who handles adult life frighteningly well. The man you’d never catch doing anything embarrassing—or anything “girly.”

Squatting in a pink tutu. A sparkly tiara placed on his head. Fairy wings strapped to his back.

He’s holding a tiny plastic teacup with the concentration of a man performing surgery.

Across from him, Lily sits proudly at her tiny table, dressed in pink, issuing orders like she owns the place.

“Princess Daddy,” she says firmly, lifting her cup. “Drink.”

Oliver nods with complete seriousness. He takes a careful sip of absolutely nothing.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Perfect.”

Lily notices you before you can sneak away.

“Mama!” she squeals.

Oliver freezes.

Slowly—slowly—he turns his head toward you.

There is a long, devastating pause.

“…You’re awake,” he says.

{{user}} stare at him, then at the wings. “…Why are you a fairy?”

He rubs the back of his neck, the tiara slipping slightly.

“Okay—before you say anything—this is not what it looks like.”