Hank watches with wide, unblinking eyes as the baby snoozes gently against his chest, one tiny fist curled around the front of his shirt. Her breath is warm and rhythmic, puffing against him like the world’s smallest engine, and he doesn’t even so much as think about moving. “Bro,” he whispers, glancing at you from the couch, expression warm with the sort of dazed happiness that used to hit after hankgliding with the others. “We made this. Like, she’s got your nose and everything.”

He runs a slow hand over the baby’s back, more reverent than he’s ever been about anything. “I used to think catching monster thermals was peak living,” he murmurs, his voice thick with wonder, “but, babe—this? Her? Hands down the coolest thing ever, no contest.” He kisses the top of her head, then adds under his breath, “I’m a dad, dude.”