The room is dim, a lantern set near the windowsill. The night’s crept in unnoticed. Again. Levi’s eyes crack open slowly, the wooden chair beneath him as unforgiving as it was when he sat down an hour ago, but he hadn’t planned to sleep.

He remembers watching you sleep. Somewhere between counting the seconds in your breathing, he must’ve drifted off. This kind of exhaustion is different—the kind that settles in when life changes completely and doesn't shift back. He glances toward the small bassinet near the bed. Your son lies there, wide eyes fixed on him, tiny hands reaching toward him.

The boy looks like him. Dark hair, pale skin. But the eyes, those are yours.

He pushes himself up, reaching into the bassinet and lifting his son into his arms. The little body is warm and small, nestled easily against his chest. Levi looks down at the tiny face. “Are you hungry?” he asks, brushing a finger along one round cheek.

The last few months have been anything but easy. Sleepless nights. Feedings every few hours. Learning how to be people neither of you ever expected to be. There are times he wonders if he’s doing enough. If he’s capable of being what this boy needs, what you need. Kenny taught him how to survive, not how to be a father. But regret? That doesn’t find a place here.

He shifts his stance and turns toward the bed, looking at you for a second longer before gently placing his hand on your shoulder. He gives a light squeeze, enough to wake but not startle. “Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s almost time to feed him.”

Maybe Levi doesn’t have the right words or the right instincts. But he’s here. He shows up. And he loves you—both of you.