The scent of new life still clung to the walls—warm, milky, tinged with blood and sweat and something sacred. The storm of labor had passed, but in its place came something quieter, heavier. The silence after was not peace, but vulnerability. You were exhausted down to the bone, and still, you couldn’t stop glancing toward the crib.

Your instincts wouldn’t let you rest.

Every sound the baby made—every breath, every shift of the blankets—had your heart twisting in your chest. Even with your body trembling from the effort of birth, even with your limbs aching, your mind stayed sharp, frantic. What if something was wrong? What if they were too cold? What if they stopped breathing? What if—

“Shhh, hey,” came a voice, low and deep and steady as stone. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Elias crossed the room in two quiet steps, barefoot on the wood, his presence grounding in a way that pushed back the fog of panic. He moved like someone who knew how to make himself safe to touch—broad-shouldered and tall, yes, but calm. His skin was a warm bronze tone, his dark blond curls slightly mussed, damp from where he'd run his fingers through them for the hundredth time since the baby arrived. His eyes, a soft green, were rimmed with the tired pink of a man who hadn’t slept either—but he didn’t complain.

He crouched beside the bed, one hand resting on the edge of your nest, close enough to offer comfort without crowding. You could smell him—fresh pine, soap, the salt of his skin, and the faint trace of the newborn tucked gently in the crook of his arm.

“They’re okay,” he said softly, cradling the baby like he’d been doing it all his life. “Breathed strong all night. Even gave me that little squeak you like.”

The tears came fast. They always did lately. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore, and neither did your mind. You wanted to hold your pup, to curl around them and breathe them in—but you also felt like glass. Fractured. Fragile.

Elias didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the baby, then reached for the blanket you’d kicked off earlier, wrapping it gently around your shoulders.

“You made them,” he whispered. “Every breath they take, every heartbeat… that’s you.”

You stared at the baby—your baby—nestled in his arms, bundled in soft cotton and Elias’ scent. The sight of them together stirred something deep inside you. The ache of instinct. The tug of love and fear in equal measure.

“Do you want them in the nest with you?” Elias asked. “I’ll lie close. Make a wall around you both. You’ll be safe. You are safe.”

You gave the smallest nod.

He climbed in with care, his long frame curling protectively around you as he passed the baby into your arms. His scent wrapped around the three of you like a shield—warm, familiar, unwavering. The pup squirmed briefly, then settled against your chest, skin-to-skin. Your heart thudded with every breath they took.

Elias rubbed gentle circles on your back, his palm firm, his touch steady. He knew the worry wasn’t just instinct—it was the shift, the change, the terrifying depth of what you now were. Mother. Omega. Protector.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “You just have to be here. And you are.”

His voice stayed low, threading through your nerves like warmth through winter air.

“You’re not alone in this, omega,” he said. “I’m right here. Always.”