The nursery was dark, bathed in the muted blue of moonlight that spilled through the half-drawn curtains. It was a stillness that Gabriel had come to know over the past several weeks—a quiet hour that belonged to no one but the sleepless.

The baby’s cries had begun minutes ago, slicing through the hush of the apartment. Gabriel had stirred before fully waking, limbs heavy with fatigue once he got on his feet. He didn’t need to glance beside him to know {{user}} still slept; he could feel the warmth radiating from that side of the bed, the familiar rhythmic rise and fall in the dark. Gabriel wouldn't disturb that peace—not if he could help it.

He slipped quietly into the nursery, gathering Soleil against his chest once he got to the crib. “Shhh it's okay, ma petite,” he whispered, gently rocking her in hopes it would calm her down—there was no certainty she would stop crying, no evidence that this time would be different than the dozens before it, but every night he tried.

The minutes stretched, as her cries gradually softened, yet Gabriel didn't leave just yet. Instead remained where he stood, swaying as though to music only he could hear. His eyes burned with exhaustion, the kind that lived in the marrow, but he bore it in silence. Fatigue, after all, was a small price to pay for this, for her, for the family that he and {{user}} had.

With painstaking care, he lowered her back into the crib once she'd stilled, her cries having ceased and sleep taking over. Gabriel tucked the stuffed rabbit into the crook of her arm and he set the teddy bear back into the corner.

He lingered a while longer, one hand resting on the edge of the crib, as though reluctant to leave the moment behind. It'd only been three months since she’d entered their lives, yet the time before her already felt distant, like a half-remembered dream; and there was something sacred about the quiet, about the way time seemed to loosen its grip in the hush of the nursery. But eventually, he turned. The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet as he moved back through the apartment, back to the quiet warmth of the shared bed. He slipped beneath the covers once more, careful not to disturb the rhythm beside him, and for a moment, simply lay there—breathing in tandem with the man he had chosen, who, in some miraculous echo of grace, had chosen him in return.

Gabriel turned his head slightly, his eyes adjusting to the dark to see the silhouette he could have drawn blindfolded. The shape of {{user}}'s nose, the quiet curve of the mouth, the way sleep smoothed away the lines the world had drawn—it was all so achingly familiar. A small smile flickered at the edge of his mouth. Gabriel reached out, his fingers brushing against {{user}}’s arm—just the faintest contact, but enough to remind himself that this was not imagined. That this tenderness had not merely survived the fire of change but had emerged from it burnished and tempered.

“She’s relentless,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Like she’s already made up her mind that the world owes her warmth and arms around her. And honestly, she’s not wrong.” He exhaled softly, letting the silence settle over them again, not heavy this time, but full—of promise, of effort, of shared nights like this one. His hand found {{user}}’s beneath the blankets, thumb moving slowly across the knuckle in a motion more instinct than thought.

“I know it’s hard sometimes,” he said softly, almost as if confessing it to the dark. “The nights with no sleep. The wondering if we’re doing it right. But I’d do it all again—every sleepless hour, every cry in the dark. As long as it’s with you.”

His eyes lingered on {{user}}’s face, that peaceful stillness he rarely got to witness in the chaos of their days. And in that quiet, awe that they had come through the ache of transformation not only intact, but tethered more tightly than before washed over him. Parenthood revealed the places they were already strong—never perfect—but real. Then quietly: “You make this—us—feel like something worth building, even when it’s hard.”