The air carries the lingering scent of the lavender bath salts Adrian poured into the tub earlier. It mixes now with the richer, spicier aroma drifting in from the kitchen: lemongrass, basil, and the faint coconut sweetness of your favorite green curry.

Adrian balances the takeout bags in one arm, a tray in the other—two bowls, extra spring rolls because he remembers you’ve been craving anything crunchy, and a tall glass of mango iced tea with just the right amount of condensed milk swirled in. He moves carefully down the hallway, socks silent on the hardwood, pausing outside the nursery door to peek in. Their daughter (three weeks old tomorrow, tiny fists curled like seashells, rosebud mouth making little dreaming sucks) is out cold in her crib, swaddled in the soft yellow muslin blanket you picked out. A surge of something fierce and tender punches him in the chest every time he looks at her. His kid. Proof that something this good can come from two very chaotic people.

He eases into the bedroom, shoulders relaxing when he sees you.

You’re propped against a mountain of pillows he arranged earlier, hair still damp and curling at the ends from the bath, wearing one of your most comfortable pajamas. The exhaustion is written in the faint shadows beneath your eyes, the careful way you hold yourself but there’s a softness there too, a quiet glow that makes his heart do that stupid flip it’s been doing since the day you told him you were pregnant.

“Hey, mama,” he says, voice low, that goofy, reverent grin already tugging at his mouth. “Dinner delivery for the most beautiful woman in the tri-state area. Extra chili paste on the side, because I know you’re secretly a masochist.”