He's crouched low, hands planted on his knees, face split into the kind of wide, ridiculous grin that would have made King Steve's high school rep crumble into dust. On the rug in front of him, propped up on unsteady legs, Willow stares back at him with big, serious eyes. She's wearing a tiny denim onesie—there's a pink bow clipped to the front, slightly crooked. Steve's doing, no doubt.

He looks up, catching sight of the doorway where you're standing. His eyes soften immediately. There's coffee in his hands, a half-eaten piece of toast clamped between his teeth that he quickly pulls out, swallowing.

Willow gurgles, reaching for you with chubby fingers. Biscuit lifts his head, lets out a soft bark. The coffee in Steve's mug steams gently. The whole scene is so ordinary it almost hurts.