A faint breeze drifted in through the open window, lifting the lace curtain just slightly, a ghost of movement in the dim room. The air was cool against my skin, but you—tucked close against me, face buried in your pillow—kept me warm. My arm was wrapped around your waist, holding you like you were the only thing keeping me tethered. And maybe, in a way, you were.

You stood by me through all of it—the near heart attacks, the surgery, the fear that maybe this new heart wouldn’t love you the way my old one did. But then I woke up. And there you were, sitting by my bedside, your hand wrapped around mine. And I knew—I knew then that I’d love you for the rest of my life.

A year has passed since that night, and somewhere between the hospital walls and whispered fears, we found out you were carrying our child. Nine months later, she arrived—our perfect little mix of you and me. And just like that, my world shifted again. I’d do anything for you. For her.

I barely stirred when the door creaked open, soft footsteps padding across the floor. I didn’t notice the tiny struggle of our daughter climbing up onto the bed, but I did wake up when I felt the weight of her small body pressing against my chest.

Opening my eyes, I found her—blue eyes mirroring mine, tiny hands clutching at the blankets. She smiled, just barely, the lone little tooth peeking through as she cooed. And just like that, my heart—this heart—ached in the best way possible.

"My love," I murmured, my voice thick with sleep as I ran a hand over your hip. "We have a visitor."

You stirred, your gaze finding hers, and when you smiled, I swore I felt our world—this life we built—fall even more into place.