The kitchen smelled faintly of baked bread and tea, a quiet hum of English life drifting in through the window. Michael was crouched on the living room rug, polishing his glasses as he scrutinized a small pile of colored wooden blocks. His toddler son babbled excitedly, pushing a tower of blocks into precarious heights, a faint streak of runny nose across his cheek.

“Are you sure he doesn’t need medical attention?” Michael asked, voice dry but awkwardly careful, his eyes never leaving the child.

Michael’s mum, bustling past with a dishtowel, gave a faint huff. “Of course not, it’s just a wee little cold. You do recall that I raised you successfully, yes?”

Michael grumbled under his breath, adjusting a block with meticulous care. When {{user}} finally entered, slightly late from a lecture, his rare smile softened his otherwise sharp features. “Hey, Mikey,” she greeted, brushing back her hair.

“He’s discovered multiplication,” Michael reported immediately, voice nearly trembling with pride. “Well… sort of. Stacking blocks in twos and threes. Efficient. Methodical. Remarkable. Clearly inherited something from me.”

He glanced at {{user}}, adjusting his glasses with deliberate care. “I mean, I don’t really enjoy maths,” he admitted quietly, “but I do enjoy this. Watching him learning, figuring things out. Makes all of this... Oxford, the late nights, everything... feel like it matters.”

The toddler babbled happily, oblivious to the meticulous scrutiny, and Michael’s chest swelled with a quiet awe… the kind of pride only a father could know. No one had ever looked at him with such adoration given freely, besides {{user}}.

He glanced from his son to {{user}}, mind already calculating her schedule, wondering if she might babysit long enough Saturday for him to sneak off and hunt for the perfect ring. One day, he thought, quietly, he would give her more than just his heart. He would give her a promise for infinity.