Gabriel’s presence in the nursery had become routine. At first, his visits were brief—just long enough to learn the basics: changing diapers, bathing the twins. He always left the moment Cécile came to breastfeed them. But over time, he began returning more often. First, twice a day, then three, four, then, whenever he had a spare moment, so long as the twins weren’t being fed.

The maids whispered about how he now waited outside the nursery when Cécile was inside, tapping his boot against the wooden floor, as if hurrying her along. It was shameless, really.

Cécile sighed as she adjusted her dress after feeding the babies. “You know, Gabriel,” she called toward the closed door, “you’re getting impatient.”

The tapping stopped.

She smirked and leaned back against the rocking chair, patting Nicolas’s back gently. “Two days ago, you told me you didn’t need to wait outside while I helped them burp. So why not come inside and help now?”

The door creaked open. Gabriel stepped in without hesitation, his usual cold expression in place. Without a word, he crossed the room and took the blonde baby girl from her cradle, settling her against his broad shoulder. He gave her small back a firm, rhythmic pat.

Cécile shook her head, watching as he worked. Gabriel merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

The nursery was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of blankets and the soft crackling of the fireplace. Gabriel focused entirely on his task, patting the baby’s back with mechanical precision. He wasn’t even looking at her—just moving through the motions as he had learned.

And then, a loud, tiny burp broke the silence. Cécile turned toward the sound—and froze. There. Just barely. A small, quiet chuckle.

Her eyes snapped to Gabriel, wide with disbelief. Had he just laughed?

But the moment she turned, his face was unreadable once more. He looked at her with an arched brow, as if questioning why she was staring.

Cécile shook her head. No way. Impossible. ‘Gabriel? Laughing?’ She exhaled, brushing the thought aside. Instead, she focused on settling the baby boy down for a nap. Once the baby was asleep, she stood, smoothing down her dress. “I need to step out for a moment. Keep an eye on them.”

Gabriel didn’t reply, but he gave a single nod.

Cécile hesitated before leaving, throwing one last glance over her shoulder. He was already looking away, absorbed in holding the baby girl against his shoulder.

The moment the door clicked shut, Gabriel exhaled. He shifted the baby in his arms, moving her from his shoulder to his chest, cradling her properly. She was awake now, her peridot green eyes peering up at him with curiosity.

She still had a trace of milk on her lips.

Gabriel wiped it away with his thumb, watching as she continued to stare at him.

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you looking at?”

She didn’t react.

Gabriel frowned. Normally, when he looked at people this way—cold, unamused—they would avert their eyes, step away, shrink under the weight of his presence. But this tiny, fragile thing didn’t even blink.

Of course, she didn’t. She was fearless. Because babies didn’t know fear. They didn’t know evil. They didn’t know cruelty.

All they knew was warmth, security, and the arms that held them. Even if those arms belonged to a man others would call dangerous, terrifying, heartless.

Gabriel stared at her, something unfamiliar pressing against his ribs.

And then—just like that—she smiled.

It was the first smile of her tiny, insignificant life. And it was directed at him. Gabriel’s breath hitched.

For a second—just a second—he felt like he was in debt, and he despised being in debt. So, he did the only thing that felt natural. He smiled back. Not a smirk. Not the cold, sharp curve of his lips he used to mock or manipulate. A real, soft, almost hesitant smile.

The baby cooed, her little fingers wiggling against his coat.

Gabriel chuckled, surprising even himself. “What? What’s so funny?”

The baby girl gurgled.

Gabriel scoffed, there was warmth in his voice. He tilted his head, lowering his face slightly to hers. His voice came out in a tone he had never used before, one he hadn’t even known he was capable of—a soft, playful lilt, the kind people used when speaking to babies.

“Oh? So you’re laughing at me now?”

The baby made a small, delighted noise.

Gabriel hummed. “Is it my face? Do I amuse you?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been alive for, what, a few weeks? And already you are making fun of your elders? What a shameless little lady.”

The baby girl wiggled in response, her tiny mouth curling into another bright, toothless grin.

Gabriel let out another laugh—louder this time, unrestrained. It startled even him, how natural it felt, how effortless.

The sound of it filled the room, wrapping around them like a quiet, unspoken truth: for the first time in his life, Gabriel d’Ernemont had was given something freely, something pure.

A baby’s first smile of many.

And he, without thinking, had given one back.