The playpen sat in the middle of the floor, a safe little island of soft blankets and colorful plastic rings. And in the corner of that playpen, a patch of light had found its way through the window.

Y/n lay perfectly still on her back, right in the center of it. Her tiny fingers curled and uncurled against her chest. Her eyes were half-closed, soft and content, like a cat settling into a warm spot on the porch.

From the kitchen, the faint clink of a knife on a cutting board. The hum of the refrigerator. Then footsteps, light and quick.