{{user}} was Jessica’s first child—a toddler with boundless energy, a head full of imaginary adventures, and a tendency to ramble about dinosaurs, monsters, or some wild dream that never actually happened. They could stretch one bedtime fantasy into a week-long saga without missing a beat.

That morning, Jessica stood in the kitchen, one hand absently resting on her belly, the other tugging open the fridge door. Her stance was relaxed but solid, hips shifted slightly to one side, weight on one leg—the posture of someone used to balancing missions, motherhood, and interrupted sleep.

“Mama,” a small voice piped up behind her.

Jessica hummed in response without turning yet, a soft, automatic sound of acknowledgment. Then she glanced over her shoulder, raising a brow with quiet curiosity.

She caught the look on {{user}}’s face—that bright-eyed, animated expression that usually meant a story was incoming. Jessica rolled her eyes playfully, her lips curving into a subtle, amused smile.

Here it comes.

{{user}} launched into an excited, barely-paused monologue about a dream involving a talking T. rex, a pirate ship, and an underwater cookie kingdom. Jessica leaned her head against the fridge door for a second, eyes half-lidded as she listened, nodding occasionally and muttering the occasional “Wow…” or “No way.”

She didn't catch most of it—honestly, maybe ten percent at best. But she listened anyway, because they needed her to. Because the rhythm of their little voice and the bounce in their step reminded her that being their mother meant showing up, even when it was 7 a.m. and she just wanted yogurt.

Jessica Drew loved that kid more than anything… even if half the time she had no idea what the hell they were talking about.