The fight had blown up in the living room and it was ugly.

“You never listen!” you yelled, anger getting the best of you after long minutes of disagreement.

“And you never talk! You always have to keep things for yourself!” he shot back, anger flaring hotter. “I always have to force you to open up, and—“

A sudden, high-pitched wail cut through the tension like a knife.

Amelia.

Ash froze mid-sentence, then let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Not at Amelia—never at his 3-months-old daughter—but at the situation.

You muttered what sounded like a curse under your breath and walked out of the living room without a word. Ash watched you left, tension still coiling in his chest. He knew it was time to feed her. He ran a hand over his face, trying—and failing—to calm himself, pacing the living room.

You came in Amelia’s room and immediately saw her squirming, tiny hands flailing. You picked her up from her crib and sat down on the rocking chair, trying to settle her to your breast while she kept fussing. It took a moment, a few little cries, until she latched—though her agitation didn’t vanish immediately.

Then it happened. A small cough, followed by a milk drop escaping the corner of her mouth and down her cheek. Amelia blinked at you, confused and annoyed at the unexpected feeling, fussing louder now. You groaned softly. Of course there was no cloth in the room.

You carried her into the open kitchen, still latched on you, desperate for comfort. She clung to you, tiny body pressing against yours, little hands searching for grounding.

Ash was there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, still fuming, but you didn’t even glance at him. You were still mad too, mind half on the fight, half on calming a fussy baby.

And yet, even as you ignored him, Ash couldn’t take his eyes off the sight. His anger, the fight, the irritation—they all started to dissolve in the face of his daughter. There she was, fussing and confused, milk on her cheek, but completely trusting you, latched on and clinging, needing nothing but her mom.

His jaw relaxed slightly, his fists unclenching. He wanted to stay mad—he really did—but the sight of her, so tiny and helpless and so utterly his, melted him faster than anything else could. He could clearly see her, stil latched on and whimpering, silently begging you to fix the world. His anger had no choice but to give way to awe, to love, to that stubborn, unshakable warmth that only his daughter and you could bring out, even when none of you even tried to.