John didn’t remember the last time a Friday evening had felt this calm. The house was warm, the lamps were low, and the only sound was the soft hum of the kettle and Matilda’s occasional squeaky babble from her blanket on the sofa.
He’d been stretched out there with her not long ago, dozing while his wife warmed a bottle in the kitchen—her soft humming drifting through the doorway like something domestic and golden.
Then came the knock.
Right. Marissa. He’d asked her to bring the report he needed for Monday, the one he forgot at HQ.
He lifted Tilly carefully and padded to the door with her still pressed to his chest. When he opened it, Marissa stood there holding the folder, perfectly put together despite the late hour.
“Evening, Captain,” she said with a bright smile. “Brought what you needed.”
“Cheers,” he muttered, stepping aside. “Come in a sec.”
She followed him into the living room—and the second she saw the baby, her expression softened like butter under sunlight.
“Oh,” she breathed. “She’s awake.”
Tilly blinked up sleepily, drooling on his shirt.
“Barely,” John said, shifting her. “Just killing time until her bottle.”
Marissa offered her hands. “Want me to hold her while you sort the paperwork?”
John didn’t think twice. He trusted his assistant. And Tilly liked being passed around—social little thing she was. So he handed the baby over gently.
“There you go, bug,” he murmured, smoothing her hair before letting go.
Marissa beamed, bouncing Tilly lightly. The baby blinked at her, confused but calm.
John opened the folder, flipping through pages, when the sound of footsteps made him look up.
His wife walked in, holding the warm bottle carefully in both hands, long blonde hair falling over her shoulder in a soft wave. She was tiny, almost delicate-looking in the lamplight—big brown eyes immediately going wide the moment she saw her baby tucked against Marissa’s shoulder.
She froze.
John’s entire chest warmed at the sight of her. “Hey, baby,” he said softly, a smile tugging at his mouth. “C’mere.” She stepped closer, hesitant, still holding the bottle. He leaned down and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to her forehead—his hand brushing her hip.
“Hi, bear,” she mumbles back, her cheeks went pink. She melted just a little. Marissa’s smile dimmed. John didn’t notice.
His wife’s gaze flicked back to Tilly, worry pressed into every line of her body. She held the bottle up slightly, voice quiet but hopeful.
“I… I need her,” she murmured. “She’s hungry.”
Marissa didn’t hand the baby back.
Instead, she perked up with a bright, too-sweet expression. “Oh! I can feed her if you want.” Before {{user}} could react, Marissa reached out and gently plucked the bottle from her hands. “You’ve been working so hard today. Really—let me.”
His wife flinched at the loss of the bottle, fingers curling back to her chest like she’d been stung.
John blinked. “Marissa—”
“It’s no trouble,” she said quickly, shifting Tilly in her arms, positioning the bottle like she’d done it a hundred times. “Honestly, Captain, I’ve always been good with babies.”
His wife swallowed, silence folding around her small frame. She didn’t protest. She never protested—not loudly. She just stood there, tiny and anxious, watching another woman cradle her child.
And Tilly, confused but quiet, reached toward her mother with one tiny hand… then slowly lowered it again when the bottle’s teat brushed her lips.
John felt something in his gut twist. Something he couldn’t yet put a name to. But before he could sort the feeling, Marissa looked up at him with a smile that was just a shade too satisfied.
“See?” she said sweetly. “She takes to me just fine.”