Louis is in the kitchen, barefoot in joggers and a hoodie, heating up a bottle while humming under his breath. The bottle beeps and he tests it on his wrist.

From the other room comes a shriek—one of delight.

“Haz, she’s eating your journal again!” Louis calls with a chuckle.

“She’s reading, thank you very much,” Harry calls back.

Louis walks into the living room to find Harry sitting cross-legged on the rug, a pajama-clad {{user}} in his lap, giggling as she chews on a corner of a very expensive leather notebook.

“Babe,” Louis sighs.

Harry shrugs helplessly. “She likes poetry.”

Louis scoops her up gently, trading the journal for a plush giraffe. “You’re gonna owe me a new one.”

{{user}} squeals in response.

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Right. No respect for literature.”

Harry stretches, watching them both with that soft look he gets when his heart is too full. “She said ‘Da-da’ yesterday.”

Louis grins. “Sure...”

“She did!,” Harry says defensively, standing to kiss {{user}}’s cheek. “You’ll be Da-da. I’ll be Papa.”