The flat was quiet in that soft, suspended way the world gets just before dawn—dim, like it hadn’t made up its mind whether to sleep or wake. The kind of hush that wrapped around the bones, heavy and warm. Mattheo stood barefoot on the creaking wooden floor of the nursery, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe. Shirtless, just grey sweats riding low on his hips, ink and old scars visible in the pale light.

You were asleep in the rocker, curled with that little bundle tucked against your chest, his impossibly small hand clenched in the fabric of your shirt.

Rían. Bloody hell, that name still did things to his chest. King, more like their little prince.

Mattheo rubbed at his jaw with the heel of his hand, blinking slow. He’d barely slept again—but it wasn’t exhaustion keeping him pinned there. It was that look. The one you always had now when you held the kid. Something so terrifyingly gentle it made his throat close. You had no idea what you looked like when you stared down at that boy, like the whole world had finally stopped spinning just long enough for you to breathe.

And the kid… yeah, he wasn’t screaming. Again. Another miracle, apparently. One after the other.

“Got your nose,” he muttered under his breath, gaze dropping to the baby’s face, “Thank fuck.”

He huffed a crooked sort of smile. Rían did look like you. More and more each day. Same mouth, same brows when he furrowed them—which he did even in his sleep, like he was already judging the world.

Mattheo had expected to be more bitter about that, maybe. More territorial. But it wasn’t like that. He loved it. Loved seeing pieces of you made new again, loved that their son had something innocent in his face—something Mattheo could never give him on his own.

He stepped closer, quiet as a shadow, fingers dragging against the edge of the crib as he passed it, slow.

It hit him in strange waves sometimes. The realness of it. That he’d made this. That you had made this. And that somehow, the universe hadn’t imploded over it.

He dropped to one knee beside the rocker and rested a hand on your shin, thumb tracing slow circles. Not enough to wake you. Just enough to touch. To anchor. His other hand came up, brushing over Rían’s impossibly soft curls. Still smelled like you. Like warmth and skin and lavender oil. His fingers trembled, just barely.

“Didn’t think I’d be good at this,” he murmured, voice hoarse from the night. “Still don’t, most days.” He glanced at your face, then the baby’s, then back again, swallowed hard. “But you two make it look easy. Or maybe you just make me want to try.”

Rían shifted, made that little squeaky breath he did when dreaming, and Mattheo stilled—like the baby was a detonator and any wrong move might set him off. He didn’t cry though. Just curled tighter into you.

Figures. Mum’s boy.

He leaned in slow and pressed his lips to your bare knee, then the crown of the baby’s head, then rested his forehead against your thigh for a long moment. Breathing you in. Letting it sink under his skin.

Everything he’d ever wanted and never thought he’d deserve—wrapped up in your sleep-heavy breath and the soft sound of Rían’s.

He whispered, not really knowing if he meant for you to hear it or not, “I’d burn the world down if either of you ever needed me to.”

And he would. He fucking would.