They hadn’t planned on bringing him. It was supposed to be just them—Timothée and {{user}}, sneaking off for a rare night in the city without strollers, snack pouches, or the constant hum of baby monitors.
But then their son had toddled over in his little Knicks onesie that morning—wild bedhead, dragging one of Timmy’s old Converse high-tops in his tiny hands—and said, “Ball?” like it was the only word that mattered.
The second they stepped out of the car and walked towards the inside of Madison Square Garden, the flashes started. Timothée’s jaw clenched—half on instinct, half because the tiny body wiggling in his arms had already started to turn his head toward the light.
“Hat down, baby,” {{user}} said gently, tugging the brim of their son’s Knicks cap lower over his eyes. The little boy giggled, clearly thinking it was a game. “Not funny, sweetheart,” she murmured, adjusting the collar of his tiny bomber jacket.
Timothée shifted the toddler to his other arm, holding him close with a practiced ease—one hand splayed over his son’s back, the other hovering protectively over the side of his face.
“Don’t look at the cameras, buddy,” he muttered, kissing the boy’s temple. “Just Daddy’s face. That’s all you need.”
The baby blinked up at him with the same sleepy hazel eyes—big and bright and so painfully identical to Timmy’s it made {{user}}’s heart ache every time. Same soft curls. Same lashes. Same expressive little mouth.
When arriving inside they were courtside. And their son, nestled on Timothée’s lap in a miniature varsity jacket and tiny baby Jordans, looked like a perfectly downscaled clone of his dad. Same dark curls, same wide eyes, same soft smile that tugged at the left corner first. It was uncanny—and frankly? A little unfair.
“Why is he literally your twin,” {{user}} whispered, pulling the blanket up around his little knees. “Like exactly.”
Timothée just grinned down at him. “Good taste runs in the family.”
“Ew,” she muttered, though her hand was already smoothing the baby’s flyaway curls. “He’s cuter than you, anyway.”
“Debatable,” Timothée murmured, bouncing his knee gently. “I don’t drool when I’m sleepy.”
“Mm, but you do pout.”
The baby squealed suddenly—high and delighted—because the Knicks mascot had waved at him. He pointed both fists toward the court, eyes big, bouncing in Timothée’s lap like he could will himself into the game. “Dada! BALL!”
People in the row behind them murmured things like “Is that Timothée with a baby?” and “God, it looks just like him—” but no one got a clear shot. Not with Timmy pulling that hoodie just enough to hide their boy’s full face, and {{user}} blocking the angle without drawing attention.
They were experts at this by now—soft protection disguised as affection. A knit blanket draped casually over his legs. A hood adjusted here. A kiss on the temple there. Always gentle, always loving. Never panicked.
“Next time we’re sitting higher up,” {{user}} said as the camera panned past again. “He’s too cute for these people.”
Timothée grinned. “Facts. Even I’m jealous of how good his curls are.”
The city was still buzzing from the Knicks win, but high up in their Manhattan apartment, everything was quiet. Warm. Safe. Their son was already out cold, curled against {{user}}’s chest in his sleep sack, his soft little snores melting into the low jazz Timothée had put on in the background. The Knicks hoodie he’d worn was tossed over the back of the couch, his beanie still clutched in one fist like a trophy.
Timothée padded barefoot into the living room, two mismatched mugs in his hands — one with faded cartoon characters (a relic from his childhood) and the other with “#1 Mom” in cracked pink cursive he had gotten for {{user}} on Mother’s Day.