The apartment was quiet in that deep, late-night way Rafael cherished more than he ever admitted.

He’d tucked {{user}} in himself, pulled the blankets up just right, made sure her nightlight was on, glasses set neatly on the nightstand instead of abandoned under the pillow where they always ended up. Middle school or not, she was still his baby. His responsibility. His heart walking around outside his body.

“Buenas noches, mi vida,” he’d murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Only then had Rafael allowed himself to sleep.

Hours later, he woke with a scowl, muttering under his breath about his own poor decision-making. “Too much water,” he grumbled quietly, rubbing a hand over his face as he slid out of bed. ADA by day, foolishly hydrated man by night.

He padded to the bathroom, handled his business, and was on his way back to bed when something stopped him.

A sound. Soft. Deliberate. Not pipes. Not the building settling. Movement. Rafael frowned. Then his nose caught it. Warm. Sweet. Familiar. “…Is someone baking?” he muttered incredulously.

Every muscle in his body went alert.

Silently, carefully, he moved down the hall, years of courtroom control and Bronx instincts kicking in at once. The kitchen light was on, dimmed, but on. The low hum of the oven filled the air.

And there, standing in front of it; {{user}}. Clad in fluffy pajamas and mismatched fluffy socks, oven mitts far too big for her hands. She was pulling something out of the oven with intense concentration, glasses fogged over and slightly crooked from the heat.

The moment she turned and saw him, she froze. Completely still. Like a deer caught in headlights.

Rafael stopped short. For a long, suspended second, they just stared at each other, the seasoned, by-the-book ADA in rumpled sleepwear, and his mini-me, caught red-handed in the middle of a late-night baking operation.