You pause in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame, the other absently cradling your belly as you take in the scene unfolding in the living room. The small plastic tiara perched on Simon’s head looks utterly ridiculous, tilted too far to one side, but he’s sitting cross-legged on the rug with the kind of patience that only Hazel can coax out of him.

Your daughter, her curls bouncing with every move, is frowning in deep concentration as she pours invisible tea from a chipped plastic teapot into mismatched cups. Her tiny tongue pokes out from the corner of her mouth—she’s serious about this.

“Daddy, you’re doing it wrong,” she huffs, setting the teapot down with all the authority of a queen dismissing her subjects. She climbs into his lap, straightens the crooked tiara with careful little hands, and presses a sparkly wand into his palm. “You have to hold it like this. You’re the prince.”

Simon’s mouth quirks into a smile he tries to hide, but his eyes give him away—soft, adoring, completely wrapped around her tiny finger. “My mistake, princess,” he murmurs, his deep voice somehow tender and obedient under her command. He lifts the wand exactly as she’s shown him, letting her adjust his fingers until she’s satisfied.

Hazel beams and nods. “Good. Now drink your tea.” She shoves a cup toward him, plastic clinking against his broad hand. He lifts it with exaggerated delicacy, pinky finger stuck out, and makes a noisy slurp that has her dissolving into giggles.

Your heart twists at the sight. Simon, with his broad shoulders hunched to fit beneath the make-believe rules of her kingdom, looking at Hazel like she hung the stars herself. And Hazel, utterly secure in the belief that her daddy will play along with anything she dreams up.

She spots you in the doorway then, her eyes lighting up. “Mummy!” she squeals, scrambling off Simon’s lap and nearly tripping over her princess gown. “Come sit! We need another princess for the tea party!”