The Gemstone house was quieter than usual, a strange kind of quiet that felt heavy instead of peaceful. Outside, the late-summer air in 2002 buzzed with the sound of cicadas, but inside, the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking wall clock were the only signs of life. Jesse sat on the edge of the couch, his elbows braced on his knees, staring at the small, squirming bundle cradled against {{user}}’s chest. Gideon was less than six months old, his soft breathing uneven, his skin warmer than it should have been. It was just a fever, {{user}} had told him so more than once, but Jesse’s mind was already running through worst-case scenarios that had no place in reality. He told himself he wasn’t scared, that it was just the late hour making him restless. But the truth was, he hadn’t been able to unclench his jaw all night.

By the second day, Jesse had stopped pretending it didn’t bother him. He wasn’t pacing the living room anymore; now he was camped out beside Gideon’s crib, a folding chair wedged in the narrow space between the crib and the wall. He’d lean forward every few minutes, one hand resting lightly on Gideon’s tiny fingers just to make sure they squeezed back. {{user}} moved around the room with quiet efficiency, cooling cloths, bottles of water, checking the thermometer, but Jesse couldn’t make himself get up and do anything else. He watched every twitch, every little sound Gideon made, like if he looked away for even a second, something terrible would happen. He wasn’t going to admit it out loud, but each ragged baby sigh landed like a punch in his chest.

The fever hadn’t gone up, but it hadn’t gone down either, and that was enough to keep Jesse rooted in place for another night. {{user}} tried to coax him into resting, but Jesse just shook his head, muttering something about staying on “dad duty” like it was some noble act instead of raw, unfiltered fear. Every time Gideon whimpered, Jesse’s hand was there instantly, rubbing small circles into his palm or tucking the blanket closer around him. The dark under his eyes was deepening, his hair a little messier than usual, but he didn’t care. Somewhere deep down, he knew this wasn’t life-threatening, but knowing didn’t mean believing, not when the smallest person in his world looked so fragile under the low lamplight.

It was just past three in the morning when Jesse realized Gideon had been holding his finger for almost an hour without letting go. The baby’s tiny grip was weak but steady, and Jesse sat there in the dim nursery, listening to the sound of {{user}}’s footsteps in the hall and the slow, steady breathing from the crib. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the quiet like a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. “Ain’t nobody takin’ you from me, little man. Not ever.”