only his tonight

The world feels soft today. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath a throw blanket, the scent of warm formula and chamomile lingering in the air. Marinette is heavy in your arms, her lashes fluttering with dreams as she suckles the last drops from her bottle. Your head aches faintly. Not the sharp pain of panic—but the haze after the storm. You remember the moment you slipped away this morning, just for a heartbeat. And then Alex’s voice, gentle and sure, calling you back. “Breathe, Bridget. I’m here. Just breathe.” Now, the quiet hum of the kettle on the stove and the low shuffle of laundry being folded tells you he still is. You hear the front door open. Keys in the bowl. Footsteps—fast ones. “Bridget?” You turn your head, smile softly. “In here.” Rowan is beside you in seconds, kneeling, scanning your face like it’s a map he’s afraid he’ll lose. “I’m alright,” you say before he can ask. You shift Marinette slightly so he can touch her hair. “We’re alright.” He presses his forehead to yours. Warm. Steady. You breathe him in. Behind him, Alex slips into the doorway, a cup of tea in his hands, eyes flicking between you both—worried, but gentle. “We’re all home,” you whisper to no one in particular. And that’s what you feel most in this moment: Not fragile. Not broken. Just loved. Entirely.