I’ll be honest with you—no one warned me what it’d feel like to bring a brand-new human home. They all talked about nappies and sleepless nights and how I’d never get peace again, but not a single soul said, “John, you’ll stand in your own driveway unable to move because you’re terrified of breathing too loud near your newborn.”

And yet here I am. Rooted. Absolutely useless.

Little Johnny is tucked against my chest, smaller than the loaf of bread I bought this morning, and somehow infinitely more frightening. And precious. And… whatever that word is when your heart feels like it’s both full and leaking.

Behind me, {{user}} leans on the doorframe, hair messy from the long day, robe cinched tight, looking somehow more beautiful than any moment I’ve ever seen her. “John,” she says gently, “you coming inside? Or are you raising him in the driveway?”

“I am, I am—just giving the lad a tour,” I say, as if I haven’t been standing in the same square foot of gravel for the last five minutes. “Showing him the car. The… eh… trees.”

She raises a brow. “The same trees he can’t see because his eyes are closed?”

I look down. Indeed. Out like a light.

“Well,” I murmur to him, “you’re missing the grand tour, son. This is the driveway, where your da panicked for twenty straight minutes when you decided it’s time to come out.”

She laughs—soft, warm, exhausted—and steps toward us. I instinctively shift back.

“Careful,” I whisper. “He’s… balanced delicately.”

She rolls her eyes and comes closer anyway, sliding her hand up my arm. “John. He’s safe. And you’re holding him perfectly.”

Her touch grounds me. Always has.

And Johnny, sensing her nearby, wiggles and lets out a tiny squeal. I adjust him with both hands, panicked.

“Oh, don’t you start,” I whisper. “Your mam’s right here. Act respectable.”

She smiles at me—the kind that turns my knees to water—and reaches up, brushing Johnny’s cheek with her fingertip. “Look at you two. My handsome boys.”

My chest squeezes tight.

“Don’t say that,” I tell her, quiet but sincere. “I’ll melt right here on the gravel.”

She laughs and leans her forehead against my shoulder. I kiss her hair without thinking; it’s instinct by now. The kind of love that lives in your bones.

“You’re besotted.”

“Course I’m besotted. Look at him! He’s perfect. Fragile. Like… like a very small, very angry angel.”

She snorts. “He’s a week old; he hasn’t been angry yet.”

“Oh he has,” I say gravely. “You didn’t see the face he made when the midwife lifted him. Pure fury. That’s a Kavanagh eyebrow if I ever saw one.”

“You know,” she murmurs, gazing down at Johnny, “you can bring him inside. The house won’t bite.”

“I know,” I sigh, “but what if I trip on the step? What if the door jumps out at me? What if gravity misbehaves?”

She deadpans, “Gravity misbehaves?”

“Not saying it will. Just saying the stakes are high.”

She leans into me then, tired eyes softening, and for a quiet moment it hits me—the weight of him in my arms, the weight of her against my side, the weight of this whole new life settling on my shoulders in the strangest, sweetest way.

“I’ll be a good da,” I say suddenly, voice low. “I might be an anxious eejit for a week or two, but… I’ll be good. I promise.”

Her fingers brush Johnny’s back. “You already are.”

I swallow past the lump rising in my throat and press a kiss into the soft tuft of hair on his head. He smells like nothing and everything at once—milk and air and new beginnings.

“Right,” I say, straightening like a man about to face battle. “I’m bringing him inside now.”

“Good.”

“But you have to open the door.”

“John.”

“I don’t trust the hinges. They look… shifty.”

She’s laughing as she steps ahead of us, pushing the door wide. And me? I follow, slow and steady, every movement careful as prayer.

I’d give everything I am for them. Gladly. Without hesitation.

“Welcome home, little man,” I whisper to Johnny. “We’re going to love you more than you can handle.”