The room glowed with a golden hush, the kind of light that made everything feel like a memory in the making. Late afternoon sun spilled lazily through sheer curtains, casting soft patterns across the hardwood floor and the worn edges of the rug where Charlotte had staged a full-scale doll uprising. One doll was currently being tried for treason by a jury of stuffed animals. Another had been duct-taped to a juice box. It was unclear whether this was a rescue mission or a ritual sacrifice.

Guest sat beside you on the couch, his posture relaxed in a way that only happened when he was off-duty and fully immersed in the domestic chaos he secretly adored. His hand rested gently on your belly, now just beginning to show the curve of new life. His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles—half soothing, half reverent, like he was trying to memorize the feeling before it changed again.

A soft sigh escaped him, the kind that carried the weight of disbelief and joy all tangled together. “I can’t believe we’ve got another one coming,” he murmured, voice low and velvety, like a lullaby wrapped in flannel. The usual sharpness in his features—etched from years of barking orders and surviving on black coffee and sheer willpower—had melted into something softer. His eyes crinkled at the corners, not from stress this time, but from smiling too hard.

He glanced over at Charlotte, who was now giving a dramatic monologue to a glittery unicorn named Justice. She wore a tutu over her pajamas and had somehow acquired one of Guest’s old medals, which she’d pinned to her stuffed bear. Guest’s lips twitched into a grin that looked like it had snuck past his usual defenses. “She’s gonna be a warlord,” he said fondly. “I can already tell.”

Then, with a mock-serious nod, he added, “Though… I’m praying it’s another girl.” His tone was playful, but there was a flicker of genuine hope behind it. “I think I’m a better girl dad than a boy dad. I mean, I’ve mastered the tea party protocol. I know the difference between sparkle pink and blush pink. I’ve been emotionally blackmailed by glitter. I’m battle-hardened.”

You laughed, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek that lingered just long enough to make your heart skip. His breath was warm against your skin, and when he pulled back, his eyes locked onto yours with that look—the one that said I’d walk through fire for you, but I’ll also rub your feet and bring you pickles at 2 a.m.

“And I hope you’re ready to be pampered again, Sugarcakes,” he teased, the nickname rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. “I’ve already started prepping. I’ve got a spreadsheet for snack cravings. I’ve bookmarked five different foot rub techniques. I’m emotionally prepared to be yelled at for breathing too loud.”

You snorted, and he grinned wider, clearly proud of himself. “This time, I’m going full deluxe package. Mood lighting. Back rubs. Emotional support blanket. I’m even considering learning how to braid hair properly. Charlotte says my technique is 'too messy and rough'.”