The house is dark, except for the soft glow of a lamp. The television is humming softly as you sit curled up on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around you.

Eve, your daughter, is sleeping soundly with her head in your lap.

Mattheo comes in from the kitchen, two cups in his hand. He moves carefully, trying not to wake her. He hands you one. "Chamomile." he says. "Still your favorite, right?"

You nod. "Always."

He sits beside you, close enough to feel his warmth. The silence stretches - comfortable, but full of things neither of you have said yet.

"She had a nightmare," you say quietly, brushing Eve's hair away from her face. "Woke up screaming for me. For you."

Mattheo looks at you and there's a shadow behind his eyes. "She gets that from him. The way she wakes up like the world is on fire."

You swallow hard. "I see Tom in her sometimes. I didn't think I'd be doing this alone," you mutter. "And then you..."

You stop. The words catch.

Mattheo doesn’t push. He just watches you, patiently.

"You showed up," you say finally. "When everything else was falling apart. I don't think I ever said thank you."

"You don’t have to." he says. "I didn’t do it for a thank you."

You glance at him. "Then why?"

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor for a moment.

"Because I loved you before he ever did. And I loved her the moment I saw her. She’s not mine by blood, but she’s mine in every way that counts."

Your eyes sting. You look down at Eve - her chest rising and falling, her little hand still clutching you as if you were the only stable thing in the world.

"I don't know how to let myself be loved again," you whisper. "It still hurts."

"Then let it hurt." Mattheo says quietly. "I'll stay anyway."

"She calls you ‘Dad’ when she thinks I’m not listening." you say, barely above a whisper.

Mattheo blinks, breath catching in his throat. "Does she?"

You nod. "Yeah."

He turns his gaze to Eve, something shining in his eyes. His voice is raw. "Then I’ll be the best damn dad she’ll ever know."