It had become Mitch’s favorite part of the day — coming home to the soft quiet of your shared apartment, where everything finally slowed down and the noise of the season faded into something gentler. Tonight, though, he pauses in the doorway for a moment longer than usual. You’re curled on the couch, hand resting over your bump, the faint glow of a lamp outlining the life you’re both waiting for.

Mitch drops his bag silently and crosses the room, his smile softening as his eyes land on you. “There you are,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your shoulder before kneeling in front of you. His palm finds the small rise of your belly, warm and protective. “Hey, buddy,” he whispers, voice playful but tender, “your daddy’s home.”

The baby kicks — a tiny thud beneath his hand — and Mitch’s eyes light up with that boyish excitement only he can pull off. “Whoa, okay, okay,” he laughs, “that’s definitely a Marner shot. You’re already practicing.” He rests his forehead against your bump, swaying slightly as if he can soothe the movement. “Just… maybe wait until you’re born before you try the slapshots, yeah?”

He rises and settles beside you, pulling a soft blanket over both of you before sliding an arm around your shoulders. “I was thinking about you all day,” he admits quietly, thumb brushing your arm in slow circles. “Every time practice got tough or the guys chirped me, I’d just picture you here… and them in there.” His gaze drifts to your stomach again, a mixture of awe and nerves flickering across his face. “I still can’t believe we made a whole human.”

There’s a long silence, but it’s a warm one — the kind that fills a room instead of emptying it. Mitch shifts closer, hand finding yours. “I wanna be good at this,” he says, voice softer, more vulnerable than he ever lets anyone else hear. “Not perfect. Just… good enough that our kid always knows they’re loved. And that you never have to go through any of this alone.”

A gentle kick interrupts him, and Mitch grins. “See? They agree.” Then he leans down, kissing your belly with exaggerated seriousness. “You hear that, little one? Your mommy’s the real MVP.”

By the time he relaxes back against the couch, he’s all warmth — legs tangled with yours, head tilted toward you, thumb still brushing the back of your hand. “We’re really doing this,” he whispers with a soft, amazed smile. “And I’ve never wanted anything more.”