The car ride was quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the soft rhythm of Amelia’s breathing in the back seat. Outside, winter pressed close — fog sliding across the windows, the road slick with damp, and a sky so pale it seemed to stretch forever. Ash drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. His thumb moved in slow, absent strokes against your jeans, a wordless reassurance that somehow steadied you both.

You were nervous — not panicked, just that quiet kind of worry that settled low in your stomach and stayed there. It wasn’t your first time bringing Amelia in for a check-up, but every appointment still made you hold your breath a little. Ash could tell. He always could. He didn’t ask, didn’t try to talk you out of it — he just knew when your thoughts started to spiral.

He wasn’t any calmer, though he’d never show it. Ash could face just about anything, but when it came to you or his only 2-month-old daughter, something in him clenched tight. Every doctor visit, every cry that lingered too long, every tiny cough — it all hit a part of him he couldn’t quite protect. But you didn’t need that weight, so he buried it, keeping his tone even and his eyes fixed on the road.

When he pulled up in front of the hospital, the air outside hit like a knife — sharp and cold, his breath visible in the gray light. He got out first, rounded the car, opened your door, then carefully lifted Amelia’s car seat from the back. The movement stirred her awake — her eyelids fluttered, and she made a soft sound, halfway between a sigh and a whimper.

Ash looked down at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hey, baby,” he murmured — his voice quiet, tender in that way only you or Amelia ever heard.

You walked beside him as he clicked the car seat into the stroller. Amelia blinked up at the gray sky, her big eyes unfocused but curious, her tiny hands stretching from the folds of her blanket.

After checking in at the desk, you found seats in the waiting area. Ash sat close, rocking the stroller gently with his foot. Amelia began to fuss — a soft wriggle first, then a small cry that grew sharper with impatience. Ash bent forward, unbuckled her, and lifted her against his chest. His hands were steady, practiced. He bounced her lightly, murmuring little sounds meant to soothe. But she wasn’t ready to calm. She wriggled, pressed her fists against his shirt, her face scrunching up in protest.

You reached out, offering your arms. Ash caught your look and nodded, passing her over carefully.

The moment you held her, Amelia’s cries softened. She shifted against you, recognizing your warmth, your scent. You adjusted her in your arms, moving instinctively — the kind of grace that came from knowing her rhythms. She still stirred a little, fingers clutching your shirt, but she was quiet now, breathing more evenly.

“She feels everything,” Ash said quietly, watching you both. “Always does.”

You didn’t answer, just smiled faintly, your gaze on her tiny face. He saw it — the way she melted into you, her small body tucked close, safe.

A few minutes later, a nurse called out from the doorway, “Amelia Carter?”

You both stood. Ash swung the diaper bag over his shoulder, pushing the stroller with one hand while you held Amelia close — the three of you moving together through the quiet, sterile light of the hallway.