Molly woke slowly, the morning light warm against her cheeks, the soft weight of blankets curled around her belly. For a moment, she wondered what had woken her—until she heard it.

A low, warm laugh.

His laugh.

Her eyes fluttered open.

There, framed in the doorway as if morning itself had shaped him, stood {{user}}… shirt slightly rumpled, hair still messy from sleep, one strong arm supporting Milo against his chest.

Milo was clinging to him like a little koala, tiny hands fisted in {{user}}’s shirt, cheek pressed sleepily against his father’s shoulder. He murmured something half-dreamy, half-complaining about being hungry.

And {{user}}, in that soft weekend voice he only ever used with them, answered:

“Alright, bud. Let’s make breakfast for Mommy, yeah?”

He adjusted Milo higher in his arms—effortless, protective—and turned toward the kitchen.

Molly’s breath caught.

Weekends were rare gifts. Days when {{user}} wasn’t out working, wasn’t gone from dawn to night. Days when he belonged completely to them.

And every time… every single time… she turned into something helplessly tender and clingy.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, hair falling over her shoulders, heart swelling in her chest so intensely it almost hurt. Watching him move around the kitchen, Milo in one arm, cracking eggs with the other—

He looked like the whole definition of home.

Milo lifted his head, spotted her, and whispered loudly into {{user}}’s neck:

“Daddy… Mommy’s awake.”