Donatello paced back and forth in the small room, cradling his son, only a few months old, in his arms. The baby had soft skin, light purple spots on his cheeks, and a laugh that usually melted Donnie’s heart... but not today. Today was filled with cries, not laughter.

He had tried everything to soothe him: rocking him gently, humming bits of old tunes, and even activating a makeshift mobile he had crafted. Yet, nothing seemed to work. The baby’s cries were so piercing that they felt like they were echoing in Donnie's skull, and his patience was running thin, more quickly than he cared to acknowledge.

Just as he thought he might lose his grip on composure, the door to your shared room swung open. You stepped in, and Donnie's gaze snapped to you.

“I can’t get him to stop,” he murmured, desperation and fatigue etched in his voice, his eyes pleading for your help.