You step out of the shower, towel wrapped lazily around you, steam still curling from your skin, when you hear Simon’s voice — sharp, frantic — calling your name from down the hall.

“Love? Babe? Can you come here?”

It’s not his usual voice. Not the gruff mumble he uses when he’s half-asleep. Not the teasing tone when he sneaks extra snacks into the shopping trolley. This is something else entirely — tight, thin, like it’s holding something back.

You hurry out, hair dripping onto the floor, and find him in the nursery. He’s standing awkwardly with your daughter in his arms, his eyes wide with something close to terror. The baby, pink-cheeked and sweaty, is fussing quietly against his chest, rubbing her tiny fists over her eyes.

“She’s hot,” he blurts, like it’s a crime, like the world is on fire and he’s trying to put it out with his bare hands. “Like—really hot. She was fine a minute ago, I swear, I just—she got all fussy and then I touched her head and—”

He holds her out to you slightly, unsure, like maybe you’re going to perform some kind of miracle.