Rogue is as often asleep, dreaming, silky hair fanning over the pillow and the arm he's leaning on, and as often awake, sleepy eyes fluttering open to watch him curiously.
"What are you thinking, Remy?" she whispers softly, her breath like a butterfly kiss against his shoulder.
He shakes his head, unable to put this feeling into words. He loves being a père. He thinks these heartbeats are somehow his own.