Philip Graves stood stuck in the doorway of his dimly lit home, a place that had once been filled with warmth. Now, it felt hollow. His military gear was still on, his hands rough and calloused from years of service gripping a life so new, so small — you. Wrapped in a soft blanket, barely the size of his arm, you slept against his chest.

He shifted his weight, the floor creaking beneath his boots as he gazed at the crib in the corner. It looked out of place — hastily assembled, the paint still fresh. The scattered screws and half-read instructions on the floor mocked him. He could put together tactical gear with his eyes closed, but this?

Philip swallowed hard, adjusting you awkwardly in his arms, his fingers trembling. He hadn’t expected this — any of it. Not the sudden hit of grief when he’d lost her, and certainly not the overwhelming responsibility of caring for you, a newborn, all on his own. His mind drifted back to the hospital, the cold, sterile smell still clinging to him. He hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye. One moment, she was there, gripping his hand, promising him a future together, and the next… she was gone. And now, all that was left was you.

The house seemed too quiet without her. He caught sight of the rocking chair by the window, the one she had picked out. She had been so excited, imagining the nights they'd spend rocking you to sleep together. Now, it was just him. Just him and you.

Taking a deep breath, he moved toward the chair, lowering himself slowly. His muscles ached, but not from the usual strain of combat or training. No, this was different. This was emotional exhaustion, the weight of grief pressing down on him. He looked down at you, your tiny fingers wrapped loosely around his shirt. He had faced enemies, led missions, stared death in the face — but this? You were his responsibility now, his to protect, his to raise. And he had no idea how.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, kid,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly. “Your mom... she should be here. She’d know what to do.”