the scent of smoke still clung faintly to ben as he walked into {{user}}'s small apartment. mia, their three-month-old daughter, was asleep in her bassinet, a peaceful little island in the quiet living room. {{user}} looked up from the dishes, a tired but fond smile gracing her lips.

“hey,” she murmured, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “she finally conked out.”

ben’s eyes softened as he looked at mia. even after a long shift, the sight of his daughter always managed to melt away the stress. “she’s getting so big,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“tell me about it,” {{user}} sighed, turning back to the sink. “i swear she grows an inch every night.”

an unspoken tension hung in the air, a familiar undercurrent in their interactions these days. they were good at co-parenting, navigating schedules and baby supplies with a practiced ease. but the easy intimacy they once shared felt like a distant memory, replaced by a careful politeness.

ben leaned against the doorframe, watching {{user}}. the way the soft light caught the curve of her neck, the familiar way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear – it all stirred something within him. a longing for what they had lost, for the easy laughter and late-night talks that had defined their relationship.

“you okay?” he asked, the question more a gentle probe than a demand.