You were half-asleep, swaying gently with the baby in your arms.

The soft hum of the lullaby played low from the monitor. Your son was warm against your chest, tiny fists curled in your robe, his breathing slow and even.

Behind you, you felt the bed shift.

“Come back,” Dante murmured, voice hoarse from sleep.

You turned your head. He was lying there shirtless, arm reaching across the bed where you should’ve been. His hair was messy, eyes half-lidded, but focused entirely on you.

“He just fell asleep,” you whispered.

He sighed dramatically, sinking deeper into the pillow like a sulking child. “You’ve been gone all night.”

“He’s teething,” you said gently. “He needs me.”

Dante didn’t respond right away. You laid your son down carefully in the crib, tucked the blanket around him, and turned off the monitor light.

When you finally slid back into bed, Dante wasted no time. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against him like you were oxygen.

“I need you too,” he mumbled into your neck.

You smiled sleepily, running your fingers through his hair. “I’m here now.”

But he didn’t let up. His arm tightened. His leg curled around yours.

“You don’t hold me like that anymore.”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re six feet tall. He’s six pounds.”

Dante groaned. “Still.”

His lips brushed your shoulder. “I miss your hands on me. I miss your kisses in the morning. I miss not being second.”

You turned in his arms, cupping his face. His expression wasn’t angry—just soft, a little boyish, like he hated how much he needed you but couldn’t help it.

“You’ll never be second,” you said softly.

He kissed you then—longer than usual, deeper. Like he wanted to remind you he was still here. Still yours.

When you pulled away, he tucked you closer.

“If he wakes up again, pretend you didn’t hear it.”