The afternoon light filtered through the blinds in dusty slats, stripes of gold cutting across the messy duvet where Frankie was currently pinned down by six pounds of demanding, babbling human.

He was flat on his back, his head pillowed by a stack of discarded laundry he hadn’t bothered to move. On his chest, his daughter was a tiny, warm weight, her hands uselessly swatting at the air while she let out a series of rhythmic, wet babbles. Frankie wasn’t moving a muscle. He was staring back at her with an expression that was dangerously close to awe, his rugged features softened in a way that would’ve made his old crew give him endless shit.

"Yeah? That so?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest that seemed to soothe her. "You've got a lot to say for someone who can't even hold her own head up, kid."

The door creaked open, and you stepped in, clutching a fresh set of clothes. You stopped at the edge of the bed, taking in the sight of the big, hardened pilot being held hostage by a creature in a floral onesie.

"Alright, Catfish, playtime’s over," you teased, leaning against the doorframe with a tired but genuine smirk. "I need to get changed and I’d like some privacy. Scram. Out of the room."

Frankie didn't even flinch. He didn't even look up at first, his dark eyes still locked on the baby’s wandering gaze. "I'm comfortable," he stated simply.

"I’m serious, Francisco. Out. I don't need an audience for the shape wear struggle."

Finally, he cut his eyes toward you, his expression dropping into a masterful, bone-dry deadpan. "Baby, I watched you push a human being out of your body three weeks ago," he said, his voice flat and unimpressed. "I’ve seen the 'under the hood' repairs. I think I can handle you putting on a clean shirt."

A startled laugh barked out of you, the sheer bluntness of his reminder catching you off guard.

"Oh, fuck you," you wheezed, shaking your head as you walked over to the bed. "That’s a low blow. That was medical. This is... aesthetic."

Frankie’s eyes softened as he watched you laugh, the tension in your shoulders finally dropping. He moved with gentle care, bracing the baby’s neck as he transitioned from laying flat to sitting up. The movement was fluid, the instincts of a man used to handling delicate machinery now applied to a fragile life.

He looked at you properly then, really taking you in, the dark circles under your eyes, the way you were clutching that change of clothes like a shield. The humor in his eyes didn't vanish, but it shifted into something steadier, more grounded.

"You really want me to bail?" he asked quietly.

Before you could even form the "yes" or the "no" that was sitting on your tongue, he was already shifting his weight to stand. He saw the flicker of self-consciousness you were trying to hide, the way you weren't quite ready to be "seen" yet, and he wasn't going to make you ask twice.

"Tell you what," he said, tucking the baby into the crook of his arm. "I’m gonna take this little loudmouth to the kitchen and get a bottle going. Give you some breathing room."

He stepped close, smelling like old leather and baby powder, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck for a brief second, a grounding squeeze that reminded you he was exactly where he wanted to be.

"Take your time," he whispered against your skin. "You look fucking great to me, for the record. But we'll be in the kitchen if you need us."