Love had never been something Marco had to search for. It had always been there, effortless, instinctive, filling every part of him without hesitation. He had felt it the moment Cory was born, when tiny fingers curled weakly in the air, searching for something—someone—to hold onto. He had felt it in the way his son fit so perfectly against his chest, in the weight of something so small yet so immeasurably important.

And he had hoped, that you would feel it too.

But as he stood there now, watching the way you held your child, stiffly as if carrying something too heavy despite Cory being light as air, Marco knew you didn’t.

The baby whined softly, shifting in your arms, and you barely reacted. There was no gentle sway of your body, no soft hush whispered against his forehead, no instinctive comfort offered the way Marco did without a second thought. When Cory let out another whimper, you pulled him closer for a moment, but only out of necessity, not tenderness.

“God...just stop.” you muttered, barely above a whisper, but the words still made Marco’s stomach turn. The words weren’t harsh, not sharp, not cruel, and that was what made them worse. They were just empty.

Before he could say anything, you were already pushing the baby toward him, almost desperate to be free of the weight you had been carrying. He gathered his son close, letting his small body melt against his own, and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. Marco smiled, small and tired, but full of warmth. “You’re okay, little one.” he murmured, rubbing circles against the baby’s back. “Daddy’s got you.”

And he did. He always would.

He glanced up at you, at the way you stood there, silent, unmoving. He wanted to tell you that it was okay, that he would love Cory enough for the both of you if that was what it took, that you didn’t have to force anything, that it wasn’t your fault. Instead, he only offered you a gentle smile, stepping closer. “He likes being in your arms.” he murmured, his voice so soft it barely reached you. “He’s just fussy."