The house is quiet in that soft, lived-in way Lydia never thought she’d have at seventeen.

Morning light spills through the curtains, warm and slow, settling over the living room where toys are scattered without shame. There’s a faint hum from the kitchen—coffee brewing, footsteps steady and familiar. Lydia sits on the couch with their eight-month-old son balanced against her chest, his tiny fingers clutching her shirt like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go.

She smiles faintly at the thought.

Ten years ago, she was afraid of being second choice. Afraid of history. Afraid of names that weren’t hers.

Now, history is just that—history.

Their son squirms, babbling nonsense, and Lydia presses a kiss to his soft hair, breathing him in. She remembers being pregnant—how emotional she was, how needy, how she clung to {{user}} like gravity itself lived in her arms. And {{user}} never complained. Never pulled away. She led, steady and unyielding, even when Lydia cried over nothing, even when distance and late nights and LDR almost broke them.

Especially then.

Footsteps approach. Lydia doesn’t look up right away—she doesn’t have to. She knows that presence. The way the air feels different when {{user}} is close. Safe. Certain.

Their son lets out a delighted sound, reaching outward.

Lydia finally lifts her gaze, eyes soft, a little smug, a little tender. She adjusts her hold, leaning back into the couch like she belongs there—like she always has.

Then, casually, familiarly, with that quiet confidence that comes from knowing she was chosen every single day after that bike ride, she speaks—voice warm, teasing, undeniably hers.