You’re curled up on the couch, one hand resting on the swell of your belly, the other idly flipping through a children’s book left open on the coffee table. Late afternoon sunlight spills through the front window in warm, golden streaks, casting everything in a gentle hush—until the front door creaks open and tiny, thundering footsteps break the quiet.

Hazel bursts in, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing with every step. “Mummy!” she squeals, already halfway into your lap before you can even sit up straighter.

“Oof—careful with the baby,” you laugh, steadying her as she wriggles against your side. She’s warm and jittery and smells like juice and paint.

Simon follows a beat later, slower, his gaze soft as it lands on the two of you. That look again—quiet, tender—like he’s still marveling at the sight even now.

“She had a lot to say on the ride home,” he mutters, shrugging off his jacket.

Still tucked against you, Hazel kicks her feet with restless energy. “I asked Daddy a question,” she declares, proud and loud.

Simon raises a brow over her head. You meet his eyes with a squint. “Oh?”

“Yup.” Hazel lifts her chin with the solemn authority only a four-year-old can summon. “I asked where babies come from.”

You open your mouth, but she barrels on, her voice rising with each new name: “Ellie at nursery said babies come from tummies, but Jacob said his daddy said they come from seeds and Mummy trees, and Maisie said they fall out of the sky in the night like stars.” She twists to look up at you, eyes wide and deadly serious. “So I said my mummy has one in her tummy right now, so I’ll just ask her.”