The quarters were dim, lit only by the gentle amber glow of the heating stone near the cradle-nest. The air was warm, still, laced with the faint scent of old nesting herbs and sterilized fabric.

{{user}} sat on the floor, knees drawn up, cradling one of the three tiny forms nestled between carefully folded thermal wraps. The child—soft, pale, barely weeks old—made a low, fretful clicking sound, limbs twitching as it stirred.

The others still slept, curled tight in their temperature-regulated bed, but this one—little T'Kai, the smallest of the clutch—never lasted past third cycle.

So {{user}} sang. Low, breathy syllables in a language so old it didn't translate well to Standard. A lullaby of air and heat, one they'd been sung themselves when they were smaller than memory.

The door hissed open.

Spock paused at the threshold. He was in his meditation robe, hands behind his back, brow slightly raised in that almost-invisible way that suggested concern.

“It is 0417 hours,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You are not sleeping.”

{{user}} didn’t look away from T’Kai, whose eyes had fluttered shut mid-note. “Neither are you.”

Spock inclined his head. “My meditations concluded early. I was... curious.”

He stepped inside, footsteps nearly soundless. “You have a beautiful voice.”

{{user}} huffed softly. “It only works half the time. They don’t listen yet.”

“They will. In time.”

Spock stood beside them for a moment, then crouched, careful not to let his robe brush the cradle. He looked down at the tiny face, now calm and still, and something flickered across his expression—something private.

“I have studied early development in hybrid offspring. Sleep irregularity is expected. It is not... ideal for your rest cycle.”

{{user}} smiled, tired but soft. “I don’t mind. They’re too new to blame for anything.”

Spock was quiet for a moment. Then: “It is... an interesting thing. To be a father.”

{{user}} looked up at him, startled—but only a little.

“Yes,” they said, brushing a curl from the baby’s forehead. “But not an unwelcome one.”

Spock watched the child for a moment longer.

Then, gently, he extended a single finger to touch the corner of T’Kai’s blanket—no more. His hand lingered there, barely brushing the fabric.

“I will make tea,” he said quietly. “You should have something warm.”

And with that, he rose, still quiet, and disappeared into the small kitchenette—leaving behind the echo of something almost like peace.