Grayson Hawthorne was sleeping peacefully, his arms wrapped around {{user}}'s body. It was a cold autumn morning. Their legs were tangled together, and the soft sound of their breathing, along with the wind hitting the windows, was the only thing echoing through the room.

Until the door slowly creaked open. The couple’s three-year-old daughter walked in with some effort, shouting:

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Grayson sighed and simply pulled his wife’s body closer. His head was pounding.

The night before, he had drunk a little too much because of a challenge from the Hawthorne brothers. He was hungover.

The woman beside him let out a soft laugh as the little girl climbed onto the bed and started poking her father. {{user}} found it funny — after all, their daughter usually called for her. It was a relief that, at least for one day, the little one had chosen to bother her dad instead of her mom.

The girl, who was her mother’s spitting image but with her father’s gray eyes, spoke impatiently as she tugged on his blond hair, the sentence coming out with adorable little mistakes:

“Daddy, daddy, I wanna play outside with you!”