I’m not sure I’ve ever been this nervous walking into someone’s flat, and that’s saying something, considering I’ve walked onstage in front of entire stadiums. But this is different. This is you, and this is Ivy. Three months of dating, three months of slow, careful steps because you made it clear from the start: your daughter comes first, always. And honestly, that just made me want to step up even more.

I grip the little book in my hand — Mum’s book, Betty and the Mysterious Visitor — and tell myself to breathe. I’ve seen pictures of Ivy, the little curls, the serious eyes, the sudden giggles on the videos you’ve shown me. But in person she’s smaller than I pictured, somehow more delicate. She stands half behind your leg, peeking at me like I’m some questionable creature who might ask her to share snacks. “Hiya, Ivy,” I say, careful and soft.

She blinks, clutches the stuffed Stitch you told me she drags everywhere, and doesn’t answer. Fair enough. I follow you inside, pretending my heart isn’t beating like I’m seventeen again. But then the book works its magic. I sit on the floor, open it, and she creeps closer inch by inch until she’s practically sitting on my knee. By the time we’ve reached the second page, she’s giggling at my silly voices, and you’re giving me that warm look from the kitchen like you knew this would happen the whole time.

Now we’re bundled under her favourite Stitch blanket on the sofa. She’s tucked against my chest, one tiny arm hooked around my side like she’s claiming her spot. I should be helping you chop vegetables or pretend I’m useful, but every time I try to move, Ivy clamps onto me like I’m a human tree she refuses to evacuate. “Alright, alright, I’m not going anywhere,” I eventually whisper to her.

I’m reading the last few pages, making the owl voice extra ridiculous because she keeps nudging me, waiting for it. Her hair tickles my chin, and I can smell that faint apple-scented shampoo kids always seem to have. Something in my chest goes tight, not scary tight, just full. Too full, almost. I’d been worried she wouldn’t like me, that I’d be some awkward bloke hovering around the edges of her little world. But she opened the door for me today — in her own careful, shy way — and I can’t even explain what that does to me.

I glance over at you in the kitchen. You’re stirring something on the stove, pretending you’re not watching us, but I can feel your attention like a warm hand between my shoulder blades. I want to go over there, kiss your cheek, tell you thank you for trusting me with this part of your life, but Ivy has me in a soft little headlock.

I get to the final line of the story, close the book gently so it doesn’t thump, and take a breath to tell her that dinner’s nearly ready, and then I feel it. Her whole body goes heavy. Slack. Completely melted into me. I look down. She’s out. Full, quiet sleep. Her cheek is squished against my chest and her tiny fist is still holding the edge of my shirt like she meant to keep me anchored. God. I don’t even try to hide the smile. I don’t think I could.

Something warm spreads through me — pride, softness, something deeper I don’t want to name too quickly but feels dangerously close to love. Not just for you. For this little person who trusted me enough to fall asleep right here.

I lift my eyes to you. You’re already looking. “She’s… uh—” I keep my voice low, like the air itself should be gentle. “She’s fallen asleep.”