The first night home, Shauna paces the living room like she’s training for a marathon, the baby screaming in her arms.

“He’s been fed,” she mutters, voice tight. “He’s changed. He’s warm. Why is he still mad at me?”

You look up from the couch, fighting a smile. “He’s not mad at you, babe. He’s just a baby.”

Shauna shoots you a look that could cut glass. “Yeah, well, this baby’s got opinions.”

Still, she bounces him gently, murmuring little apologies under her breath, like she’s personally offended him by existing. Her hair’s a mess, there’s a burp cloth hanging off her shoulder, and she looks like she’s one sleepless hour away from losing it, but she won’t hand him over.

“Here,” you say, standing. “Let me try.”

“No.” She shifts him higher against her chest. “I’ve got him.”You arch a brow. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

She starts humming something faint and tuneless, her voice shaking at first, then softening as the baby finally hiccups, goes quiet, and blinks up at her. The change is so sudden it knocks the air out of both of you.

Shauna freezes. “Oh my god. He stopped.”You grin. “Told you.”

She looks down at him, her whole face softening. “He’s kind of perfect, huh?”

“Completely.”

For a long moment, she just stares, like she’s trying to memorize every tiny thing about him. The way his fingers curl. The way his little mouth twitches in his sleep.

And right there, in the middle of your messy living room, Shauna Shipman, toughest person you’ve ever met, expert at pretending she doesn’t care, is gone. Completely undone by a seven-pound miracle.

The days that follow are a blur. Shauna insists on doing everything herself, feedings, diapers, midnight check-ins, and she watches him like the world might end if she looks away.

“Babe,” you whisper one night, watching her stand over the crib. “He’s fine. You can come to bed.”

She glances over, eyes tired but still sharp. “What if he wakes up and I don’t hear him?”

“You will.”

“But what if I don’t?”

“Shauna.” You reach for her hand. “Come here.”

She hesitates, then finally gives in, crawling into bed beside you. When she exhales, her head finds your shoulder, her fear small in the dark.