The fire in his parents’ sitting room crackled with that soft, familiar comfort Ben hadn’t let himself feel in years. He sat on the worn tartan rug, Finley tucked against his chest in a little knitted blanket his mum had dug out of a drawer. The boy smelled like milk and warmth, eyelids fluttering in restless baby-dreams.

Ben’s shoulders weren’t squared like a cop tonight. They were bent, soft, relaxed. One hand kept rubbing Finley’s tiny back in circles, the other holding him close like he still couldn’t believe this child was real. Every so often, he’d glance up at the sofa—at you.

You sat wedged between his mum and dad, head tilted, doodling little spirals in the margin of his mum’s crossword without even noticing. His mum was laughing, asking you about your teaching, her hand occasionally resting on your arm with fondness. And you—formal, stubborn, dismissive when people tried to fuss—were actually smiling, cheeks soft with something he didn’t see often: ease.

Ben’s throat burned at the sight. He’d told himself for years that family was a cage, something to outrun. But now, watching you lean against his mum while Finley slept against him, he felt something different coil in his chest. Not panic. Not shame. Belonging.

Christ, look at her. She fits here. Better than I do, half the time. And Mum—she actually likes her. Dad too. Never thought I’d bloody see that. I don’t deserve this, any of it, but… I’ll die before I lose it.

“Stop staring, Benjamin,” his mum teased suddenly, her voice cutting through his fog. He blinked, caught red-handed, blue eyes snapping away from you. A blush crept up his neck.

“Wasn’t staring,” he muttered, accent slipping heavier than usual, a half-scowl on his face. His mum arched a brow knowingly, and you laughed—the kind of laugh that still punched him in the ribs every time.

He shook his head, pressing his cheek into Finley’s downy hair, pretending he wasn’t embarrassed. Idiot. Thirty-five years old and you’re still blushing like a schoolboy. She probably thinks you’re pathetic. God, but that laugh. I’d crawl on my knees across hot coals to hear that again.

His dad cleared his throat, folding the paper. “You’ve done well, son.”

The words landed like a weight. Ben froze. Compliments from his father weren’t casual things. They were rare, deliberate. His jaw flexed, cheek hollowing as he bit down on the inside of it, eyes flicking to you again. You weren’t looking at him now—you were focused on Finley, your large hand reaching out to stroke your son’s cheek.

Ben swallowed hard, his voice rough. “Couldn’t’ve done any of this without her.”

Your eyes flicked up, wide for a second at the sincerity, before you looked away, dismissive as always, muttering something about “nonsense.” But he caught the faint blush. He always caught it.

He leaned down, kissed the top of Finley’s head, then whispered, so low only his son (and maybe the hearth) could hear: “You saved me, little man. You and your mum both. I’ll get this right. Even if it kills me.”