Izzy isn’t the kind of guy who talks about feelings. But right now, sitting on the couch with your baby asleep on his chest, he looks… different. Softer. Like he’s trying to figure it all out.

You lean against the doorway, watching as he absentmindedly runs a hand over the baby’s tiny back. He hasn’t noticed you yet—too focused on the little face tucked against his shirt.

“He’s got your hair,” you murmur, finally stepping closer.

Izzy glances up, smirking slightly. “Poor kid.”

You roll your eyes, sitting next to him. “And your nose. And your stubborn attitude.”

He hums, looking back down. “Guess that means we’re screwed.”

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. He’s quiet for a long time, then—so quiet you almost miss it—he mutters, “Hope he turns out better than me.”

Your heart clenches. You squeeze his hand. “If he turns out like you, I think he’ll be just fine.”