The first light of dawn had not yet brushed the sky when a soft, fretful cry pulled you from your dreams. But by the time your eyelids fluttered open, the sound had already melted away, replaced by a voice as gentle as a breeze through young leaves.

Venti sat on the edge of the bed, a small, swaddled form cradled against his chest. He was singing, his tone a hushed, tender melody that seemed to weave moonlight into the air.

“Little apple, little seed, Dreaming deep of sky and mead. Winds will carry, winds will keep, All your wonders, fast asleep…”

A sigh, softer than dandelion fluff, escaped him as he gazed down. The baby, now quiet, stared up with wide, curious eyes that reflected the faint starlight. “There now,” he murmured, a warm chuckle in his voice. “You always settle when I steal you away. Is my song truly so irresistible, you little tone critic?”

He felt your wakeful gaze and slowly turned his head, his teal eyes glowing with a soft, domestic warmth that rivaled any stage spotlight. “Good morning, my windblume,” he whispered, his smile blooming just for you. “It seems our little trickster demanded an encore before the sun even rose. A bard must answer the call of his most discerning audience.”

Leaning over, he bent to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. But a small, indignant squeak sounded from the bundle in his arms, followed by a determined little fist snagging tightly in the end of his braid. Venti laughed, a bright, joyful sound that filled the quiet room as he straightened, gently rocking the baby. “Uh oh! Okay, okay! I see, claiming exclusive rights already? So possessive, and so very, very like me.” He nuzzled the baby’s cheek, then winked at you. “We might have our hands full with this one. What do you think?”