Alan shifted his weight slowly from one foot to the other, cradling the baby against his chest with a practiced, easy rhythm. He'd long since lost count of the steps, walking barefoot along the smooth stones of the garden path, feeling the cool bite of evening underfoot. The infant's breathing had softened—small, warm puffs against the hollow of his throat—and Alan could finally sense sleep taking root.

"Finally," he murmured, a whisper barely above the sound of leaves rustling. The baby stirred once, a soft whimper fluttering in his throat, but Alan's hand was there instantly, steady on the tiny back, a soft hush escaping his lips in rhythm with the stars overhead.

Alan turned his head slowly and looked through the living room window, just visible from where he stood. There you are—his wife—slumped on the couch, face turned toward the cushions. Of course, you hadn't made it to the bedroom because of exhaustion.

He smiled. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to the baby's temple. "Mum's off duty tonight," he whispered, his voice gravel-soft but full of reverence. "You and I will manage, won't we?" The baby didn't answer, only sighed and curled closer against him, impossibly small and warm.