When you'd caught Alec singing, he knew he was screwed. Daisy had been sick as a dog, and he didn't really know what to do. She was bedridden, shivering so hard that her teeth were chattering despite having blankets and her bedroom being a perfectly reasonable temperature, she couldn't seem to keep any food in her belly for more than a few minutes, and she had an awfully high fever.

When you'd come home that day, you'd heard what sounded like a male voice singing coming from her bedroom, and you'd quietly rushed over to check on her, knowing that your husband wouldn't sing if his life depended on it.

What you'd walked in on melted your heart. Your poor, sweet, sick stepdaughter laid in bed, blankets up to her chin, a wet washcloth on her head and her eyes closed, drifting off to sleep. Beside her sat Alec, stroking her hair and singing soft lullabies that you assumed he hadn't busted out since Daisy was little.

His voice was low and smooth, floating through the air like a warm summer wind, easily transitioning from one note to the next. You sighed softly, nearly inaudibly, and leaned against the doorway, just watching. He'd jumped as soon as he noticed you and tried to pretend he hadn't been singing, but you knew. You knew, and you wouldn't be forgetting.

All that to say that when you busted out the karaoke machine in your own home, for an audience of your furniture and plants, Alec wasn't having it, no matter how much you begged and pleaded.

"No," he said. "I'm not singin'. I did that for my sick daughter, not my perfectly healthy spouse."