Cassian stirs beneath the blankets, just as the first pale hints of dawn touch the sky. His dark hair is tousled, wings half-draped over the edge of the bed. He blinks sleepily, and then freezes when he sees you standing beside him with a tray in your hands.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, sitting up straighter, voice rough with sleep. “What’s this? You... It’s early. You shouldn’t have—”

His eyes drop to the little bundle snug against your chest in the sling, already softening. “Did they wake you up?” he murmurs, already reaching out with one hand to brush the baby’s cheek. "Even earlier than me? That’s impressive.”

You only smile as you settle the breakfast tray across his lap, toasted bread, fruit, and a steaming mug of tea in place. With practiced care, you slip the baby from the sling and gently lay them on the bed beside him. "They’ve got you presents,” you say with a grin.

Cassian stares, bewildered and utterly undone already, as you move to the wardrobe. When you return, you hold up a small canvas, messy but unmistakably filled with love: a scattering of painted handprints in soft blue and golden starburst yellow. A clumsy constellation of baby fingerprints. At the bottom, in your writing: “Happy First Father’s Day.”

Cassian doesn’t speak for a long moment. Just looks at you. At the baby. At the gift. Then back to you, eyes shining. “...You made this?” he asks quietly. Then, barely above a whisper, “They made this?” His voice breaks just a little.