He'd thought for a moment, hand still on her belly.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he'd said quietly. "But I'm here.."

She'd turned to look at him then, eyes bright.

"That's all anyone can promise," she'd said. "Just... being here. That's the whole thing."

The music had played on. The furniture remained unassembled. The light through the window had turned everything honey-gold.

"What color is all this then?" he'd asked, playing their game.

She'd tilted her head, considering.

"Warm amber with a thread of sky blue," she'd said. "Like hope mixed with a little bit of fear. Like standing at the edge of something huge and not knowing if you'll fly or fall."

"That's very specific."

"I'm very specific." She'd kissed his temple, leaving another tiny smudge of paint — purple this time. "You're going to be covered in colors by the end of today."

"I'm okay with that."

They'd sat there a while longer, the furniture forgotten, just breathing in the same space. The baby had kicked again — stronger this time — and they'd both felt it. A little revolution happening inside her. A person becoming.

She'd started humming again, that same tuneless melody she always made up when she was content. No structure. Just sound.

"Don't stop," he'd said.

"I won't."

A duck splashed loudly in the canal besides Papa and Peter, Tima still asleep in the pram.

Peter was quiet for a long moment.

"I don't think it's about doing it the same," he said eventually. "I think it's about not letting go of the thread."

Papa looked at him.

"My dad," Peter said, "he used to take me up Snowdon. Not often. But when he did, he never talked much. Just pointed things out — rocks, birds, clouds. I thought it meant he didn't care."

He smiled, dry and tired.

"But now, I think he just didn't know how to say it."

Papa sat down beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. Tima stirred but didn't wake.

"I still feel him sometimes," Peter said. "When I walk certain places. When I fix something."

Papa nodded. "Mine too. There was always a distance. He wasn't… open. But he loved me. And somehow I feel it more now."

Another silence. But this one was companionable.

"She'll feel it too," Peter said after a while, nodding toward Tima. "Even if you don't always say it right. Even if you're not ready."

Papa breathed out, slow and long, and leaned back.

Peter bumped his shoulder lightly against his.

"You're doing it, you know."

"Doing what?"

"Being her dad." Peter paused, then added, "And you're not doing it alone. You've got us. Me, Steph, Eira. We're her people. Family doesn't have to look one way, does it? We choose each other. That's what makes it real."