The front door creaks open with its familiar, half-broken whine, and Eddie freezes mid-step the second the music hits him.

“Play that funky music, white boy—”

He pauses in the doorway, one hand still on the doorframe, jacket slung over his shoulder, expecting maybe the usual quiet house, maybe you curled up on the couch with a book. Instead, he’s met with… this.

You’re in the middle of the living room, barefoot on the carpet, swaying your hips in an exaggerated groove that absolutely does not match the beat. In your arms is your six-month-old nephew, perched against your chest, his tiny fists balled into your shirt as you bounce him gently. You’re making ridiculous kissy noises at him, eyes crossed, lips puckered, then breaking into a grin when he lets out a delighted, breathy giggle.

You spin in a slow circle, holding him up just enough that his little socked feet dangle, singing along off-key.

“Lay down the boogie and play that funky music ‘til you die—”

You dip him slightly, like you’re ballroom dancing, and he squeaks, wide-eyed and thrilled.

Eddie just stares.

For a good five seconds, he forgets how to breathe.

This is not the version of his girlfriend he sees at school, or in the parking lot after Hellfire, or making out with him in the van. This is softer. Warmer. Domestic in a way that hits him right in the chest without warning.

He clears his throat loudly.

You don’t hear him.

You’re too busy booping the baby’s nose in time with the bassline, whispering, “Who’s funky? You’re funky. Yes, you are,” like that sentence makes perfect sense.

Eddie takes another step inside, boots thudding just loud enough to finally get your attention.

You spin—and nearly jump out of your skin.

“Oh my god—Eddie!” you laugh, clutching your nephew closer. “How long have you been standing there?”

He lifts both hands in surrender, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Long enough to know I just witnessed the most metal thing I’ve ever seen.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, setting his jacket down slowly, like he doesn’t want to break the moment. “You realize you’re dancing to Wild Cherry… with a six-month-old… in your arms… making duck noises.”

“Those were kiss noises,” you protest.

“Sure they were.”

The baby stares at Eddie now, utterly fascinated by the mass of curls and the rings and the denim vest. Eddie freezes under the tiny, unblinking gaze.

“…Is he judging me?” Eddie murmurs.

“He’s deciding if you’re cool enough to exist in his presence,” you tease.

Eddie cautiously reaches out, wiggling two fingers in front of the baby. “Hey there, little dude. I’m the idiot dating your aunt.”

Your nephew immediately grabs his finger with surprising strength.

Eddie’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, I’m trapped.”

You laugh, watching the two of them. The music keeps playing in the background, the room warm and ridiculous and perfect.

And for the first time all day, Eddie thinks—

Yeah. This is exactly where I want to be.