The house smells like lavender and popcorn.

You're in sweatpants, a soft hoodie borrowed from Cuddy, and Rachel is curled against your side under a fuzzy blanket, still holding half a juice box in her sleepy little hand. Some animated movie is playing — something with bright colors, catchy songs, and princesses who save themselves.

Cuddy is on the other end of the couch, feet tucked under her, hair in a messy bun, glasses slipping down her nose. She's watching you more than the screen, and you catch her at it for the third time.

You smirk. "You keep staring at me like I'm the movie."

She shrugs, eyes soft. "You're better."

You glance down at Rachel, fast asleep now, breathing slow and even. Your arm is numb from her weight, but you wouldn't move if the house was on fire.

"This..." you say quietly, voice barely above a whisper, "This is nice."

Cuddy reaches over and laces her fingers with yours across the blanket.

"Yeah," she murmurs. "It really is."

There's something unspoken in the air — something about family, about how strange and beautiful it is that you ended up here, not just in Cuddy's life, but in her home. With her daughter curled against you like she's known you forever. With Cuddy looking at you like you belong.