The soft glow of the fireplace bathed the cozy living room in a golden hue. You lounged on the plush couch, cradling your daughter in your arms.

Her eyes met yours. Those were Tom’s eyes, through and through. Her dark, slightly unruly hair even fell across her forehead in the exact same way.

You sighed dramatically, holding her at arm’s length to scrutinize her tiny face. “Nine months,” you began, tilting your head with playful exasperation, “Nine months in my belly... and you…” You narrowed your eyes, drawing out the pause as your daughter squealed in delight. “...dare to be the exact copy of your father?!”

Across the room, Tom looked up from the armchair he’d claimed as his own. A book rested on his lap, one hand curled lazily around the spine. His lips twitched into a smirk, his sharp cheekbones catching the firelight. “Should I be flattered or concerned?” he asked, his voice rich with amusement.

“Flattered, obviously,” you quipped, bouncing your daughter gently on your knee. She erupted into another fit of giggles, and the sound wrapped around your heart like a warm blanket.

Tom’s smirk deepened, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair as he watched you both. “Good to know you think so highly of me,” he murmured.

Turning back to your daughter, you softened, your fingers brushing a stray curl from her forehead. You cupped her tiny face in your hands, marveling at her delicate features—the button nose, the pouty lips that so often mimicked her father’s expressions.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered. The words were for her, but Tom’s gaze flickered, his smirk fading into something softer.

He closed his book with a quiet snap, stood up and crossed the room. He sat down next to you on the couch and put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close so that the three of you were huddled together.

“She really is,” he agreed. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then leaned down to brush his lips against your daughter’s forehead, making her squirm and giggle again.