The soft glow of the nightlight spilled across the nursery, casting a warm halo over Christopher’s tired features. It was 3 a.m., and the small room seemed to magnify every sound—the tiny wails of their baby boy, the creak of the rocking chair as Christopher gently swayed back and forth, the faint rustle of the curtains stirred by the night breeze.

Christopher’s arms ached from holding the little one close, his voice hoarse from humming lullabies. His dark eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, held a softness that refused to waver despite his weariness. He whispered a faint, "C’mon, buddy… let’s give Mama a break," his Australian accent curling gently around the words.

The baby squirmed, his tiny fists flailing against Christopher’s chest. He’d tried everything—rocking, bouncing, even the stuffed dinosaur with its faint crinkling sound—but nothing seemed to soothe him. His heart clenched with each cry, not just for his son’s distress but for the woman sleeping in the bedroom they shared. She was undoubtedly more exhausted than he was after long nights and endless days of care.

Christopher adjusted his hold, cradling the baby closer. The weight of fatherhood pressed against his chest, but with it came an overwhelming surge of love. He brushed a gentle kiss against his son’s downy head, murmuring, "You’ve got my heart, kiddo." The baby stilled for a moment, his cries softening into a hiccup. Hope flickered in Christopher’s eyes, but it was short-lived. The wailing resumed, piercing the stillness.

With a reluctant sigh, Christopher looked toward the bedroom door. The thought of waking her pained him, but he knew they were in this together. He glanced back at his son, his tired smile unwavering. "Okay, little man. Let’s tag in your MVP."

The nursery light dimmed further as he crossed the room, the cries blending with the faint hum of the city night.