Andrew never hid what weakness he had for you — the people around him just didn't notice his manifestations. The gaze lingering on your face longer than necessary, the trust of his car and home in you, the wristbands to underline your bound and all those many acts, too subtle for them, but perfect for you. Andrew never thought he was capable of feeling something like this and he certainly didn't think he was capable of feeling something twice as strong as this.

He had to reassess the extent of his confidence exactly the moment you adopted your child — those eyes, so the two of you picked this child out of all the others. The exact same look Andrew had only seen once in his life when he first met you. Those eyes, glittering with lostness, and the swarm of thoughts lurking behind them, were doing something to him.

The similarity to you was good in the sense that the second person in this universe whom he loved equally as much as you reminded him of you in this magnificent part that Andrew truly adored and cherished. It was bad in the sense that his weakness for you now extended to this child, only in even greater amounts.

Andrew has almost always been what is commonly referred to as a good cop. He's a lot softer than he looks — if a kid wants something, he gets it most of the time, even if you say no because "daddy Andrew said yes,". It's not that Andrew doesn't realize the fact that ice cream for breakfast is unhealthy, it's just that those eyes make him agree to any "please."

"Well, you heard that," he says in feigned confidence, shrugging, inwardly grateful that you are the voice of reason. He swears that he tries. Andrew leans against the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee smoking in his hands. "Sweets after breakfast," being strict is so unaccustomedly difficult for him.