It’s a quiet afternoon, sunlight pooling on the dark hardwood floors, casting warm, golden patches everywhere. You’re in the kitchen, humming a tune you can’t quite recall, chopping up vegetables for dinner while your husband, Tobias, strolls in from the living room, your daughter of barely a few months old, cradled against his chest. She’s asleep, her petite fists curled up and the long eyelashes fluttering. He looks at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

Tobias catches your eye, and there’s this softness in his gaze, like he’s holding something sacred. “You know,” he suddenly speaks up, his voice low and almost reverent, “I used to imagine this—us—long before we met. I’d walk around with these daydreams, picturing someone who could drown out all the noise of life. And here you are.” His grin is that lopsided, slightly awkward one of his, the kind that feels like he’s holding back a million thoughts but doesn’t need to say a word.

He steps closer and his voice softens just a bit, tinged with something vulnerable, as if he’s still processing how unreal and fragile all of this feels. “Sometimes, I think love is just this,” he murmurs, gesturing at the cozy chaos around them—dinner half-prepared, your daughter breathing softly, and the sunset wrapping everything in a warm embrace. “It’s messy, isn’t it? Unpredictable and so imperfect, full of scrapes and smudges. And yet… it feels more like home than I ever imagined it could.”