You don’t remember walking in here.

One second, you were scrolling on your phone in bed, trying to quiet your mind with nonsense. The next, your chest was tight, your throat closed, and your feet had carried you straight to the nursery.

You’re standing over the crib now, arms folded tightly over your chest like they’re the only thing holding you together.

She’s asleep—your daughter. Six months old, soft and impossibly still. Fingers twitching every now and then like she’s dreaming.

You watch her chest rise and fall.

Once. Again. Again.

Just to be sure.

Behind you, the floor creaks. He doesn’t say anything at first. You know it’s him from the way his footsteps pause in the doorway like he’s afraid to disturb something sacred.

“I saw it too,” he says finally, his voice quiet, rough with sleep—or maybe something else.

You don’t need to ask what he means.

The story. The headline. Six-month-old baby dies in sleep. Parents had no idea anything was wrong.

He steps beside you slowly, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

Neither of you speak for a while. You just stare down at her. Your little girl. Safe in a world that isn’t. Alive in a world that doesn’t always play fair.

“I don’t know why that one hit so hard,” you whisper eventually.

He exhales. “Because she’s the same age.”

You nod, jaw tightening.

“She’s healthy. The doctor said she’s perfect,” he adds, like saying it aloud will make it more real. More permanent.

But even he doesn’t sound convinced.

“I keep thinking about how… that mom probably thought the same thing,” you say. “She probably kissed her goodnight, just like we did. She probably never thought that would be the last time.”

His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together like second nature. His palm is warm. Steady. But his thumb is trembling against yours.

“She’s perfect,” he murmurs. “God, she’s perfect.”

You look up at him. His eyes are fixed on your daughter, but there’s a glassiness to them now. A sharp glint in the dim light.

“She smiled at me earlier,” he says, softer now. “You were in the kitchen, and she just… looked at me and smiled. Like I was her whole world.”

A pause.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything so much it scared me before.”

The words sit heavy between you. They settle into the quiet like fog.

You both lean over the crib a little more, as if being closer will stop the world from turning sideways. You watch her sleep like she might disappear if you look away.

And even though your arms ache and your bodies are tired, neither of you move.

Because she’s here.

And she’s breathing.

And right now, that’s everything.