Y/N’s paint-splattered fingers curled around Mia’s back, keeping her steady as she spun. The toddler giggled, a bubbling, breathless sound that filled the small space, her tiny hand fisting in the collar of Y/N’s oversized sweater.

On the floor speaker, a lo-fi beat looped lazily — some indie playlist Y/N had stumbled on months ago and never bothered to change. Mia’s feet kicked in a rhythm only she could hear, sneakers smacking against her mother’s hip.

Around them, the basement breathed. Canvases leaned against every wall, some finished, some half-done, faces and landscapes half-emerging from shadow. A paint-spattered stool sat overturned in the corner. A coffee mug held dried brushes like wilted flowers.

The phone buzzed again — a low, insistent hum against the wooden table.

The screen glowed briefly, a notification preview visible for just a moment before fading.

Y/N didn’t look at it. She just kept spinning, fingers pressing a little tighter into her daughter’s back, as if she could keep the whole world outside this room.

Mia’s laugh peeled through the air again, bright and unburdened, and for a moment, everything was exactly where it should be.