𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐒 is the daughter of Luke Danes, and is always second best to the already perfect Rory Gilmore, somebody who Lucy has compared herself to her entire school life until Rory is accepted to the prestigious school, Chilton, somew...
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December 6th, 1998
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[ LUKE'S POV ]
LUCIANA WAS BORN AT 4:44am ON THE 6TH DECEMBER, 1984.
I wasn't there for her birth, something I hate because I missed the first few seconds of her life. However, every single year since she could talk, I would wake up at 4:44am— a time I need to wake up anyway because I have a diner to run— and I'd sit alongside Lucy as she stirs awake.
Which I do right now, my arm around her shoulders as she sits up and leans against the bed frame, a yawn leaving her mouth as she looks to me.
"Happy birthday," I say, nudging her.
She leans her head against my shoulder. "Thank you," she whispers.
I pat a hand against her head, brushing her hair away from her face as she yawns again, her arm cuddling around my arm.
"I can't believe how fast you're growing up." It's been a shocking fourteen years of Lucy being in my life, and these fourteen years have been the most perfect, most stressful, and most incredible years of my life. I wouldn't trade them in for anything in the world, and I definitely wouldn't trade this moment with my daughter for anything.
Lucy hasn't been a huge fan of parties on her birthday since her grandfather died six days before her birthday, but I've made it a tradition to wake her up at the time she was born and sit with her until she inevitably falls asleep again.
Lucy groans, her arms stretching out in front of her. "Why was I born so early?"
"Beats me, kiddo."
Lucy looks up to me, her eyes tired. She seems more tired this year than she did the previous year but I continue to talk to her, "Are you satisfied with your life so far?"
I ask that question every year and she always has the same response.
"Hmm. I don't have any complaints," she says. She never does have complaints about her life which pleases me. "I think it's good, don't you?"
"Oh, I think I'm a bit bias." I grin, rubbing my hand up and down her arm.
She shifts in her bed, her face looking back up at mine. "Do I look older?" she asks, which is another question she asks me every year.
