𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The house was quiet when you stepped through the door, the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty but alive, humming with something softer than sound. You knew instantly Paul was still there—his backpack slung on the couch, one sneaker tipped near the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of formula propped against the armrest.

It was his turn to stay home. Senior year had turned into a juggling act neither of you had been ready for, but somehow, between sleepless nights and whispered arguments, you were making it work. You took the morning classes, he took the baby, and in the afternoon you switched.

You followed a faint laugh to the living room.

Paul was on the floor, flat on his back, sunlight cutting gold stripes across his face. Their four-month-old daughter lay on his chest, her head barely the size of his palm. She giggled as he kissed her cheeks and poked gently at her stomach, one hand steady at her back, the other coaxing out another laugh.

You stopped in the doorway, watching.

You hadn’t expected him to take to fatherhood so naturally. When you’d found out you were pregnant, you thought he’d leave. Instead, Paul had shown up the next morning, eyes bloodshot but jaw set, and told you you’d figure it out together. And somehow, you had. Between late-night feedings and long school days, you were carving out something like a life.

Now their daughter curled her tiny fingers into his shirt, squealing when he whispered something only she could understand. His grin reached his eyes, making him look young and older all at once.

You leaned against the frame, memorizing the moment. You were still kids, fumbling your way through too much responsibility—but as you watched Paul tickle your daughter into another laugh, you couldn’t help but believe they might just be okay.