Sunlight’s just beginning to slip through the curtains when I wake up. That soft, early kind that makes everything look like it’s been dipped in gold. The kind that tells you it’s going to be a good day before you’ve even opened your eyes properly.

She’s already awake.

Not moving. Just lying there, head on the pillow, eyes half-lidded with sleep and softness. Watching me. Or maybe watching the light paint patterns on the ceiling.

And God, she looks beautiful. Ridiculously so. Even with the sleep-tousled hair and the faint lines on her cheek from the pillow. Maybe because of those.

I shift a little closer, slide my hand to her waist beneath the sheets. Warm. Familiar. Ours.

“Morning,” I murmur, voice still rough.

She hums, leans in and presses a kiss just beneath my jaw. One of those barely-there ones that still manages to undo me completely. My fingers tighten slightly at her hip.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask, quieter now. We always check in like that. Especially after the last couple of years.

She smiles. Soft. Real. “Tired,” she says, “but happy.”

That word still hits different now. Happy.

Because there was a time we weren’t sure we’d ever get here. When the house felt too quiet. When we stopped saying certain things out loud in case they made the hope hurt worse. When I’d find her sitting in the hallway outside the bathroom with her knees pulled to her chest and a test in her hand that said not this time.

But that feels a world away now.

Now there’s him.

And like clockwork, as if summoned by the thought, we both hear it — the soft thud of tiny feet, the creak of a door somewhere down the hall, a moment of silence…

…and then the fastest little footsteps you’ve ever heard in your life.

We don’t even have time to brace before the door bangs open and he’s there — pyjamas twisted, hair like a bird’s nest, face lit up with mischief and pride.

“Mummy!” he shouts, already clambering up. “Daddy! I escaped!”

I laugh, full and unfiltered, and she pulls the covers back without hesitation, arms wide.

“Oh no,” I say, mock serious, catching him just before he lands on my ribs, “not the escape artist again.”

Johnny giggles — full belly laugh, head thrown back — and plants himself right in the middle of us. Our boy. Our absolute little whirlwind of a miracle.

She runs her fingers through his hair, smoothing it down. I press a kiss to his temple, and he squishes himself between us like he’s trying to fuse the three of us into one person.

And in that moment — in our bed, tangled limbs and laughter and the smell of sun-warmed cotton and toast from somewhere downstairs — I swear the world outside could stop turning and I wouldn’t even notice.

This is it.

This is everything.

Her. Him. Us.

And I don’t need anything else.

Ever.