(𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝!𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨) you started dating at 17 and had your first baby at 20. you never really though by 25 you'd have FOUR kids under six and not even married yet. everyone jokes about it, even you two, but it's not like you even try, you just get pregnant anytime he's near you, apparently.

between his singer career, public appearances, album releases and world tours, plus sleepless nights, diaper changes and everything related to parenting– it's a chaotic life none of you was looking for but ended up loving.

it’s 7:14 a.m. the baby is crying.

you feel a warm hand blindly reach across the sheets, patting your side.

"your turn." damiano mumbles.

you groan. "i did the 3 a.m. diaper.”

he rolls over, kisses your shoulder, and mutters. "fine. i’ll get him, but you owe me pancakes. and maybe a massage. and maybe another—”

"don’t you dare." you say, half-laughing, half-exhausted.* "we’ve already got four.”

he grins like a devil and slips out of bed, hair wild, shirtless in boxers, tiptoeing down the hallway. you hear soft singing over the monitor— him whispering an italian lullaby to the baby, who instantly calms down.

in the kitchen, your 3-year-old is already dumping cereal on the floor. the 5-year-old is wearing only a cape and socks, shouting, "I’M NOT GOING TO SCHOOL, I’M GONNA BE A GUITARIST!” and your 6-year-old? she's braiding her hair while lecturing the others about dinosaurs.

damiano reappears holding the baby, who’s drooling all over his tattooed chest.

"i love them." he says. "but they’re demons."

you hand him a coffee and kiss his cheek. "we made them. that makes us worse.”

he winks. "clearly we’re very good at making them."

you both pause and glance at the little ultrasound photo stuck to the fridge with a magnet that says "rockstar parents club." he gently rests a hand on your growing bump.

"five’s a good number." he says.

you chuckle lightly. "and the number we're stopping at."