intrepidity

Twelve years ago -

The nursery was bathed in golden lamplight, casting soft glows over pale walls and shelves filled with picture books and plush toys. It smelled like lavender baby lotion and freshly washed sheets — a peaceful little haven tucked away in the Valenti estate. The crib sat in the middle, with soft pastel blankets bunched at one end and her beloved stuffed bunny nestled beside a tiny, sleeping girl.

Aurora, just a few months old, was curled up in a little bundle of softness, her cheeks rosy and her breath quiet. She let out the occasional sigh, twitching slightly in her sleep like she was dreaming. Every so often, her lips would move, barely forming a whimper. It wasn't loud, but it was enough to draw quiet footsteps into the room.

Eight-year-old Roman peeked through the crack in the nursery door, holding his breath. He stepped inside slowly, already in his pajamas — a soft navy set with tiny stars embroidered on the cuffs. His hair was messy from sleep, and his eyes still heavy, but his focus was only on the baby girl in the crib.

He padded across the room, dragging a big throw pillow behind him. When Aurora let out another little whimper, Roman frowned and reached into the crib, careful not to wake her. He brushed a hand gently down her back through the bars.

"I'm here, baby," he whispered.

She stilled almost immediately.

Roman sat down beside the crib, pulling the pillow into his lap and resting his cheek on the edge of the wooden bars. He didn't say much else. He just stayed there, small and sleepy and utterly determined to be near her. His fingers hooked loosely through the crib rails as his breathing slowed.

He started nodding off — head dipping forward, then jerking up again. But he never moved away.

That's how their father found him.

The door opened slowly, quietly, revealing a tall, dark-haired man in a soft charcoal sweater and dress pants, sleeves rolled up slightly. He was broad-shouldered, expression unreadable, though there was something gentle in the set of his eyes. He stepped into the room without a sound, watching the scene before him.

Roman, slumped at the side of the crib, dozing off but still clinging to the edge like a soldier standing guard.

Their father leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching slightly.

After a moment, he crossed the room and crouched beside his son, a large hand resting gently on the boy's shoulder.

"Roman," he said softly.

Roman jerked awake with a startled little blink. "I—! I wasn't asleep! I was just—just resting my eyes—"

Their father raised an eyebrow, amused.

"You've been in here for nearly an hour, sweetheart," he murmured. "You know she's not going to disappear, right?"

Roman looked up at him, blinking owlishly. "She cried a lot earlier. And... and I didn't want her to be alone."

There was a pause. A long, quiet moment where their father looked between the two of them — the tiny baby girl curled in her crib, and the sleepy big brother guarding her like she was the most important thing in the world.

Then he exhaled softly and reached down, scooping Roman into his arms like he weighed nothing at all.

Roman slumped against his chest, too tired to argue now, but still muttering: "I was gonna stay the whole night..."

"I know," his father said, voice low and warm. "But even strong knights need sleep, my love."

Roman yawned and nuzzled closer, his arms loosely wrapped around his dad's neck.