The house was quiet—peaceful in a way {{user}} hadn’t known since the pregnancy test turned positive.

He stood in the doorway, towel around his neck from training, jersey still clinging to sweat-damp skin. But it wasn’t the ache in his legs or the sting of a tackle that had him frozen. It was the sight in front of him.

Lizzie.

His Lizzie.

Curled up on the couch in one of his old rugby shirts, sleeves swallowed her arms, her hair in a messy bun that was more spit-up cloth than hair tie. A bottle lay on the coffee table, forgotten now that their daughter had dozed off on Lizzie’s chest, tiny fingers fisted in the fabric like she knew her whole world was right there.

She used to be fire and venom, makeup like armor, clothes that screamed look at me, I dare you. She’d snarl before she ever smiled. But now? Now she was softness and lullabies. Still sharp when needed—God help anyone who tried to touch their girl without asking—but with a gentleness {{user}} never thought he’d get to witness.

He watched her rock, just slightly, humming something tuneless. Her hand stroked the baby’s back absentmindedly, like it was second nature now. It probably was.

They’d been kicked out the night Lizzie told her parents she was keeping the baby. Her mother had cried, her father had shouted, and Lizzie had packed her things with shaking hands and proud eyes. She’d barely gotten the words out before {{user}}’s own parents were pulling them through the door and into safety.

It wasn’t perfect. His schedule was packed—rugby training, lectures, assignments—but he was grinding for them. For her. For that tiny sleeping bundle of warmth and wonder. And every time he wanted to quit, to break under the weight of being a father at nineteen, he’d come home to this.

To Lizzie.

She looked up then, like she felt his stare, and her lips curved into a soft smile. Sleepy, worn, but real.

“Hi,” she whispered, careful not to wake the baby.

{{user}} crossed the room and sat on the edge of the couch, fingers brushing a stray hair from her face. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

Lizzie scoffed, but her cheeks flushed. “I smell like sour milk and baby wipes.”

He leaned down, kissed her forehead, then the crown of their daughter’s head. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And for the first time in a long time, Lizzie didn’t argue.