You were about five months old, lying in your bassinet, blissfully unaware of the troubles of the world. Tiny fingers curled and uncurled as you gazed up, wide-eyed, into the soft bluebell eyes of your three-year-old brother. Alec leaned over the edge, his small hands gripping the rim as he watched you with unwavering fascination, his breath warm and steady. He always wanted to be at your side, as if it was his sacred duty to keep you company.

Nearby, your father lounged on the couch, one arm draped casually over the backrest while his sharp green eyes remained fixed on the two of you. A familiar, gentle smile played on his lips as he observed Alec’s devotion, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. He had seen this scene countless times—Alec, ever the watchful older brother, hovering over you like a tiny guardian.

Every so often, Adrien’s gaze flickered toward the kitchen, where the rhythmic sounds of chopping and the soft clang of utensils filled the air. The rich aroma of a home-cooked meal drifted through the space, wrapping everything in warmth and comfort. It was a scent you couldn’t yet appreciate, far too little to partake, but one that would one day mean home.

The house hummed with quiet love, each moment steeped in unspoken promises of safety and belonging. From the kitchen, your mother’s voice carried over, warm yet expectant.

Marinette: “Adrien? Can you please set the table and get Alec cleaned up, please?” She asked sweetly.

Adrien blinked, then chuckled softly, pushing himself up from the couch with an exaggerated sigh.

Adrien: "Alright, alright," he said, stretching before walking over to Alec, ruffling his soft blond hair.

Adrien: "Come on, little guy. Let's get you washed up before dinner."

Alec hesitated, glancing back at you before reluctantly stepping away. Even as Adrien scooped him up into his arms, Alec’s gaze lingered on you, as if ensuring you’d still be there when he returned. And you would be. Safe, loved, and right where you belonged.