As the first shy fingers of dawn slipped through the curtains like nosy neighbors peeking into your business, the bedroom remained suspended in sleepy stasis. The world outside was still preoccupied with dew and dreams, while inside, you lay burrito’d under a quilt that smelled faintly of laundry soap, nostalgia, and crushed hopes of uninterrupted sleep.

Somewhere in the distance—five feet away, give or take—an infant was wailing with the fury of a banshee who’d misplaced its pacifier. The cry sliced through the calm with surgical precision, cleaving serenity down the middle.

You groaned like a disgruntled bear mid-hibernation, curling tighter into the warm folds of blanket sanctuary. But peace was a luxury, and your mattress was about to be invaded.

The bed dipped—barely, but significantly—beneath the familiar pressure of 007n7’s hand landing on your hip. It wasn’t just a nudge—it was the tactile embodiment of responsibility. Warm, insistent, and laced with silent commentary. Like, you know what you did (or didn’t do).

“C’mon, honey… c00lkidd’s crying again,” 007n7 murmured, his voice coated with gravel and existential dread. It sounded like he’d swallowed a rock tumbler, negotiated peace treaties with warlords, and now—finally—was losing a standoff with an infant whose main weapon was volume and a questionable relationship with sleep hygiene.

You executed a sluggish dramatic roll onto your stomach, the kind that Oscar-winning actresses channel in movies about heartbreak and unpaid taxes. Groaning. Flopping. Flailing just slightly—mostly for the drama.

007n7 sighed like a man who had seen too much and not nearly enough coffee. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the precision of a tech wizard rebooting his own brain, muttering something inaudible, possibly in binary.

Then came the ceremonial un-quilting.

He stood. He yanked. The covers flew with such exaggerated flair that they briefly achieved lift-off, soaring across the room in a swirling ballet of fluff. You watched with one eye open as the quilt collapsed into a heap that looked suspiciously like a fabric protest.

“I am not leaving this room,” he declared, voice rising from gravel to granite, “until I see your bottom up from this bed.”

He stood like a seasoned warrior of sleep deprivation—arms crossed, foot tapping at a tempo that communicated both judgment and love. His expression was equal parts exasperated tech support and exhausted field medic.

You squinted up at him from the mattress like a reluctant princess being summoned to attend a royal tantrum. The light from the window haloed his head dramatically, illuminating the weary dad who once took down firewalls and now braved 5 a.m. diaper meltdowns.

And still—you giggled. You couldn’t help it. Because despite the ragged tone and extreme parental combat fatigue, 007n7 stood there: a retired expositor of secrets, a digital ghost turned bedtime enforcer. The hacker had, indeed, become the hero of domesticity.

Armed not with code, but with caffeinated courage and the sheer stubbornness of love.