You’re barely eighteen, running on two hours of sleep, and somehow responsible for the tiniest human you’ve ever seen.

Your hoodie’s stained with milk, your hair’s in a knot you don’t remember tying, and your phone alarm is going off again even though the baby’s already awake—and screaming like the world’s ending. Simon groans from the bed.

“I just closed my eyes,” he mumbles, face buried in the pillow. “Yeah, and she just opened hers. Guess who wins?”

You’re already scooping your daughter out of her bassinet, your arms on autopilot. She’s warm and fussy, rooting against your chest like she knows what she wants and isn’t taking ‘later’ for an answer.

Simon peeks with one eye, voice rough. “You need me to—?” “No, I got her. Just…” You lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, unclip your nursing bra one-handed like a total pro. “Get me a granola bar or something. Please.”

“On it,” he says, sitting up with a stretch and a yawn, hair sticking out in about seven directions. He disappears into the kitchen while you latch your daughter on. The crying stops almost instantly, replaced by soft gulps and the tiniest sigh you’ve ever heard. Your heart does that weird twisty thing it does every time—like it still hasn’t caught up to the fact that she’s yours.

Yours and Simon’s. Teen parents. Two barely-grown kids figuring out how to keep another human alive.

He comes back with a granola bar and a juice box, which honestly feels like the most romantic gesture in the world right now. “Your breakfast, madam.”