The kid wouldn’t stop crying.

Tonny stood in the corner of the cramped flat, shirtless, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The baby’s wails pierced through the thumping bass from the nightclub below, mixing with the occasional scream, laughter, or shattered bottle out on the street. It was like the whole damn city was falling apart at once.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Not since the delivery. You were knocked out cold on the mattress behind him, legs still bruised from the emergency cab ride and the mess at the clinic. He’d done what he could—boiled water, cleaned towels, bought formula—but fuck if he knew what he was doing.

He shifted his weight, ran a hand down his face, and stared at the tiny bundle in the baby carrier on the floor. Red-faced, fists clenched, lungs working overtime. Just like him.

The baby cried louder. Tonny winced, crouching down, resting his arms on his knees. He tapped ash into an empty ash tray and looked over his shoulder at you. You hadn’t stirred. God, you looked like a ghost. Beautiful and burned out. Like you’d seen too much and didn’t want to see anymore.