The soft hum of the ceiling fan filled the quiet evening as you lay curled into the corner of the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. The day had been long, but peaceful—the kind of summer day that left a golden haze lingering in the windows and a lull of warmth throughout the house. You were still adjusting to the new rhythm of motherhood, the kind that didn’t slow down even when the world outside did.

From the hallway, you heard soft footsteps—Ethan’s. You looked up, instinctively drawn to the sound, and your heart caught in your throat at the sight before you.

There he was, your husband, cradling your daughter in the most unconventional way. Meisa, five months old and as lively as ever, was propped against his chest, her tiny diapered bottom supported by his forearm, one of her chubby hands gripping the collar of his T-shirt. She looked completely at ease, despite how awkward the position seemed. Not the snug, swaddled cuddle you’d expect—no, this was something else. Something distinctly theirs.

“She wouldn’t stop moving when I was dressing her,” Ethan murmured, glancing down at her with that lopsided grin he only wore when he was both amused and exhausted. “She’ll be up for a while.”

You smiled, setting your phone aside.

Meisa was dressed in pink polka-dotted pajamas, her tiny feet wiggling, and her soft ginger curls peeking out beneath a slightly askew pink bonnet. Her wide eyes, so much like Ethan’s, scanned the room with restless curiosity.