The afternoon light slanted through the curtains, casting long shadows across the living room floor. Peter was on his knees on the rug, sorting through a pile of baby clothes. Tiny socks. Yellow ones. He hummed softly to himself, oblivious.

His scent hit you then. Sweet, warm, a hint of vanilla and milk—it wrapped around your instincts like a fist.

Your hands itched. Your jaw tightened.