"So... what would you do if you had only twenty four hours left to live?"

There's a curious tone to Hannah's voice as she repeats the question that one of Dean's patients had asked him today. He's been telling her the story of his day, part of their routine since she's been on maternity leave, the two of them sitting on the couch, takeout already in the kitchen ready to eat when the baby goes down. It's not going to be too much longer, he can tell. Their daughter's head is resting on Hannah's shoulder, turned towards Dean so that one cheek is smooshed adorably against Hannah's shirt, her eyes closed, lips pursed, deliciously milk-drunk and content. Hannah's hand moves slowly up and down the baby's spine, a soothing motion designed to lull and Dean knows, like he knows his own name, that he will never tire of this sight. His two girls, in his house, at his side.

And he hadn't been able to think of an answer, not when his patient asked the question, not in the hospital with the noise of patients and the smell of antiseptic.

But here, with the sound of his daughter's breathing and her fresh from the bath scent surrounding him, the answer comes easily.

His eyes meet Hannah's as he shrugs and a smile comes to her face, bright and brilliant, like she knows exactly what he's going to say and it delights her as much as she delights him.

"This," he tells her simply and when she leans in, careful of the sleeping baby, and presses her lips to his, he's even more sure of his answer.