George stirs as you push open the door with your foot, struggling with the tray of breakfast in your hands. His hair looks more copper than usual in the soft morning light. You’d woken before dawn to beat him to it, a rare feat, considering he's always the early riser.

“Honey?” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He blinks up at you, then breaks into a grin as you wander over and settle the tray in his lap.

You lift the baby from the carrier and gently lay them on the bed beside him. Their tiny limbs stretch out with a soft whine, nestling into the warmth between you both.

“Breakfast in bed? What a lucky man I am,” George says with a chuckle, his hand reaching down to caress the baby’s cheek, awe in his eyes.

“It’s a very early start for you though, isn’t it, my love?” he adds, raising a brow knowingly.

Truthfully, the baby had stirred anyway, but today was special. His first Father’s Day. He deserved this.

You walk over to the wardrobe, retrieving the small gift box and placing it in his hands. George opens it and pauses, staring down at the mug inside, decorated with tiny painted handprints and footprints. His grin softens into something quieter, more full.