The kitchen light flickers softly above, casting golden warmth over the chipped counters and the half-folded laundry. The baby monitor crackles faintly on the table between you—white noise and the occasional sleepy sigh from the nursery.

Chloe leans against the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, watching you stir a bottle like you’ve done it a thousand times. Like it’s second nature now.

“You should sit,” she murmurs, her voice low, worried. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

You just shake your head, tired eyes focused on the formula, and Chloe’s already moving—already sliding in beside you to take the bottle, to guide you gently to the couch. You don’t fight her.

She tucks a blanket around your legs, presses a kiss to the side of your head, and disappears into the nursery without a word.

When she comes back, she’s quieter than before. Slower. Like she doesn’t want to startle you.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” she says after a long moment, sitting beside you. “Even when you think you’re barely holding it together.”