the baby's already up when you wake, tiny gurgles echoing softly from the other room.

you groan and roll over, expecting to see vi fast asleep, but her side of the bed is empty—sheets rumpled, still warm. and then you hear her voice. low, quiet. soft in a way she never is with anyone else.

you slip out of bed and tiptoe to the doorway.

vi’s standing in the nursery, hair a mess, tank top riding up over her hip. your daughter is tucked against her chest in one arm, a bottle in the other. vi’s pacing, slow and steady, whispering something under her breath that sounds a little like a story. or maybe a bad joke. something about silco being uglier than a dead sewer rat.

you lean against the doorframe and just… watch.

she looks so small in vi’s arms. so safe.

“you’re not supposed to be up,” vi murmurs when she notices you, but she’s smiling. tired, yeah, but warm. “i had it.”

“you always have it,” you say gently, walking over. “you don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

vi kisses the baby’s forehead, then your shoulder as you reach her side. “i don’t mind,” she says. “i like taking care of her. makes me feel like maybe i’m not such a screw-up.”

“vi—”

“i mean it.” her voice lowers. “she looks at me like i’m… good. like i’m worth something.”

you press your forehead to hers.

“you are. to her. to me.”

the baby lets out a little sigh, her tiny hand curling into vi’s shirt like she knows she belongs there.

vi shifts her grip, careful and practiced, and glances at you with something soft in her eyes.

“you wanna hold her?”