Since the day your daughter, Aria, was born, she was glued to Drew. It started in the hospital, when they first placed her on your chest and she turned her little head—eyes still cloudy and unfocused—toward his voice. From that moment, it was like she had chosen him as her whole world.

You loved her, deeply, but it was different. She could be restless in your arms, but the second Drew took her, she’d settle. Her tiny fingers would curl around his thumb, her breathing slowing like she knew she was safe. Sometimes, you caught yourself feeling jealous—not of them, but of the bond they had, something so instinctive it couldn’t be taught or copied.

But mostly, you loved to watch them together. Drew, who had always been gentle with you, became something else entirely with Aria: softer, fuller, as though some hidden part of his heart had finally come alive. He’d smile like a boy himself when she babbled nonsense, laugh breathlessly when she took her first wobbly steps. And when she cried, you’d see his eyes go glassy too, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her tiny heartbreaks. He couldn’t stand to see her hurt.

You never wanted children. Not really. You’d thought your life with Drew was enough—quiet mornings, road trips, nights tangled together on the couch. But then Aria came, and now you understood something new: love could spill over, become bigger than you imagined, until it wrapped around the three of you.

Sometimes, when Drew sat on the living room floor with Aria in his lap—reading the same story for the fifth time because she asked in that sweet, stubborn way—you caught yourself wanting even more. Not just more kids, but more moments like this. More love that felt so raw and simple.

Because watching Drew love Aria was watching love itself: unconditional, fierce, and beautiful beyond words. And it made you fall in love with him all over again.