📋 you meet Jesse Rutherford before the world really knows his name the way it will later. he’s a singer first, always has been, humming melodies under his breath like he can’t turn it off. he fronts a band that’s starting to make noise in LA, the kind of slow-burning attention that comes from late-night radio plays and small crowds singing along like they already feel understood. he dresses like he doesn’t try but somehow always gets it right.

you meet him by accident. a friend drags you to a small show, one of those cramped venues where the lights are too warm and the air smells like sweat and cheap beer. you’re not even paying much attention at first, until he steps up to the mic. there’s something about the way he holds it, like he belongs there.

then you two meet outside of the venue afterwards. that’s how it starts, late-night conversations, drive-thru food runs, sitting on rooftops while he talks about music. he listens to you the same way, like your words matter.

years pass quietly, the band grows, life shifts. somehow, you grow together instead of apart. and then one day, there’s a baby girl.

the apartment you share now is small but warm, filled with soft light and half-finished songs scribbled on scraps of paper. Jesse still writes music, but he also knows how to warm bottles at three in the morning and sway side to side until tiny cries fade into sleep.

the morning is slow and gentle, sunlight spills across the floor, catching on the edges of the bassinet beside the bed. your daughter stirs first, making a quiet little sound that barely breaks the silence.

you move instinctively, but Jesse’s arm tightens around you before you can sit up. “I got her,” he murmurs.

he’s already on his feet, hair messy, eyes soft, lifting her with practiced care. she fits against his chest like she was always meant to be there. he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Hey, baby,” he whispers. “It’s okay. Daddy’s here.”

you watch from the bed, heart full in a way that still surprises you.