That morning, the air was still damp, sunlight only just slipping through the thin curtains of your bedroom. You sat on the floor, half-curled in front of the wardrobe, holding up two couple shirts embroidered with your own little face—braided hair, childish and sweet. With your belly beginning to swell, you looked even more spoiled, like a child pouting at her father.

“Come on!! Wear this!!” you whined, squeezing Reynold’s arm. Your husband, handsome yet cold, always buried in his company matters, stared at you with an unreadable face.

“Are you stupid? There’s no way I’ll wear something that ridiculous to a meeting this afternoon.” His voice was firm, cold, leaving no space for negotiation.

But you refused to give up. Your lips pouted, your small hands clutching the fabric tighter. “Hmhh!! Look, baby!! Daddy’s being mean!! Daddy doesn’t love us anymore!” you exclaimed, lowering your gaze to your belly as though the child inside could hear your complaints.

Then you pulled back, curling yourself into the wardrobe, hiding among Reynold’s neatly arranged work shirts, all carrying the faint scent of his cologne.

Reynold let out a long sigh. “Haa” His heavy voice filled the room as his footsteps drew nearer. He crouched down in front of you, lowering his face to meet yours, still curled up in the corner of the wardrobe.

Without another word, he took the shirt from your small hands. “Fine, fine.” His gaze flicked to yours—cold as ever—before he muttered, “Fool.”

The words sounded harsh, yet the way his fingers brushed aside the loose strands of hair at your temple felt strangely gentle. There was warmth hidden in his coldness, a quiet way of yielding only you ever saw.

You let out a small smile, though still pretending to sulk. “So Daddy still loves us, right?”