The Bridgerton house had always been alive, but today it pulsed with a different kind of energy—one that felt warmer, fuller, unmistakably altered by the presence of children. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating polished floors and casting a gentle glow over the familiar chaos of family life. Laughter echoed from the drawing room, punctuated by the occasional shriek of delight and the murmured reprimands of siblings who had long ago accepted noise as the natural state of their home.

Colin stood near the doorway, one arm securely wrapped around his youngest child. The baby—only eight months old—rested against his chest, small fingers gripping the fabric of his father’s waistcoat with surprising determination. Colin glanced down instinctively, adjusting his hold with the practiced ease of someone who had long since learned that love required constant, quiet attentiveness.

Across the room, {{user}} sat on the rug beside their two-year-old daughter, helping her stack wooden blocks that seemed determined to collapse the moment they reached any respectable height. Their daughter’s curls bounced as she laughed, clapping her hands when the blocks inevitably toppled. {{user}} laughed too—soft and unguarded—and the sound struck Colin straight through the chest.

Marriage had changed him. Fatherhood had undone him entirely.

He had traveled the world, stood on foreign shores beneath unfamiliar skies, believed himself restless by nature. And yet here—here, in his childhood home, surrounded by siblings who teased too much and loved too fiercely, watching his wife coax patience from a toddler—he felt more anchored than he ever had.

“Colin,” Daphne’s voice carried from the sofa, amused. “You’re staring.”

He blinked, realizing he had been doing precisely that. “Am I?” he asked lightly, though the smile that curved his mouth was unmistakably fond.

“You always do,” Eloise added, barely glancing up from the book she pretended not to be reading. “As if she might vanish if you look away.”

Colin scoffed. “That would be ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Benedict murmured with a grin, “entirely accurate.”

Colin chose not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he shifted the baby higher against his shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss to the downy hair at the crown of their child’s head. The baby gurgled happily, oblivious to the way his father’s heart rearranged itself around every tiny sound.

{{user}} looked up then, catching his gaze across the room. There was something unspoken that passed between them—an understanding forged not just by love, but by shared exhaustion, shared joy, shared responsibility. Her lips curved into a smile meant only for him, and Colin felt his breath hitch in a way that still surprised him, even now.

“How are you faring over there?” she asked.

“Well enough,” he replied. “Though I suspect I am being used as furniture.”

The baby chose that moment to tug sharply at his collar, as if in agreement.

“I warned you,” {{user}} said, laughter dancing in her eyes. “You insisted you had it handled.”

“I do,” he said quickly. “Entirely. I am exceedingly capable.”

Anthony raised a brow. “You said the same thing before you attempted to change a nappy and required assistance.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three.”

Colin sighed. “History is being exaggerated.”

Despite himself, he laughed—and so did {{user}}. Their daughter toddled toward him then, arms raised in a demand that brooked no refusal. Colin crouched immediately, careful not to disturb the baby as he leaned down.

“Come here, my love,” he said softly.

She flung herself at him with all the trust of a child who had never known anything but safety. Colin steadied them both, his heart swelling painfully at the weight of her against him.

“You are spoiling them,” Violet observed gently from her chair, eyes bright with affection.

Colin met his mother’s gaze. “I fail to see the issue.”