The scent of lavender clung to the steam as you washed your hair, a brief escape from the chaos of parenthood. Two months in, and your little once had been an angel, mostly. But Colt? He'd been… different. More reactive, I guess. Like a highly sensitive smoke alarm. Which was why when the bathroom door burst open, you weren't entirely surprised.

"He won't stop crying..." Colt wailed, his voice thick with despair. Your baby, face crumpled and red, echoed his misery. You pulled back the curtain, water dripping down your arms, to a scene of utter devastation. Tears and snot slicked both of their faces. Leo's tiny fists were balled up, and Colt’s usually composed features were a mess of worry and frustration.