you wake up to the absence of weight beside you, and for a moment, you think maybe abby left for patrol early, until you hear the faint hum of her voice coming from the living room.

you pad down the hall, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, and there she is. abby’s sitting on the couch, hair pulled back in a messy braid, one hand cradling your daughter against her chest, the other gently bouncing her in a slow rhythm. it’s the most peaceful you’ve ever seen her. shoulders relaxed, eyes soft, speaking in that low, steady murmur she only uses when it’s just the two of you. or now, the three.

“you’re not tired yet, huh?” she murmurs, glancing down at the baby, who’s wide awake and sucking on her tiny fist. “just like your mama.”

you smile quietly from the doorway, watching as abby presses a kiss to the baby’s forehead. there’s something so careful in the way she holds her, like even with all that strength, she’s still terrified of breaking something this small, this perfect.

“hey,” you whisper, stepping into the room.

abby looks up and smiles—soft, sleepy, full of love. “sorry. i didn’t want to wake you.”

“you didn’t.” you sit beside her, tucking yourself under her arm. “you’re good with her.”

“yeah?” her voice goes quieter, almost like she doesn’t believe it yet.