The flat was quiet, the kind of quiet reserved for just before the world stirs. The rain tapped its fingers gently on the windowpanes, and the sky outside was that pale kind of blue that meant morning, but barely. Theodore sat on the worn velvet armchair by the fireplace, legs long and folded, bare feet on cold wood.

Niamh was asleep against your chest. That soft rise and fall, the tiny flutter of lashes, the little sound she made in her sleep—like a sigh stitched into the silence. You were asleep too, head tilted back, mouth parted just slightly. The weight of the world had never looked so beautiful, so softened. He didn’t dare move.

His gaze dragged over her tiny face again, and again. She looked like him. Unmistakably. The slope of her nose, the downturn of her mouth, even the quiet in her eyes when she opened them and stared up at the ceiling like she’d been born already disappointed. His daughter. It still didn’t feel real. Still felt like saying it aloud would break something delicate between his ribs.

“She should’ve looked like you,” he’d whispered last week, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You’d been too tired to argue, and maybe he’d wanted that.

But she had your eyes. Those eyes changed everything.

He ran a hand through his hair, slowly, watching her tiny fingers twitch in a dream. Probably dreaming of nothing yet—just light and warmth and you. She always reached for you. Every time. She knew his voice, sure, turned her head when he spoke low near her ear—but her comfort lived in your skin, not his. And he didn’t resent it. Not once. It made sense. You were the constant heartbeat beneath her beginning.

Still, when he held her—alone, sometimes, when you were in the bath or asleep—she’d calm in his arms too. Once, she’d even fallen asleep on his chest, hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt like she didn’t want him going anywhere. He hadn’t moved for two hours. He hadn’t dared.

Theodore stood, padded over to you, and crouched at your side. One hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, slow, reverent. His thumb lingered just beneath your jaw.

“She looks like you when she’s asleep,” he murmured, voice rough from quiet, not sleep. He didn’t sleep much anymore. Didn’t want to.

He shifted his gaze to Niamh.

“Except she frowns like me,” he added, softer now, “Poor thing.”

He kissed your temple, then leaned down and kissed the tiny curve of his daughter’s forehead. She stirred only slightly—eyes fluttered, then settled.

He watched her breathe.

Then he whispered, mostly to himself, but loud enough for the room to hear, “You’re the best thing I never thought I’d get to have.”

And he meant it for both of you.