Tamaki had checked on her three times in the last ten minutes.

Four, if he counted the time he hovered by the doorway and convinced himself that listening for her breathing was enough.

It wasn’t.

He stood there again now, hand half-curled against the doorframe, hesitating before stepping inside like he was intruding on something fragile. The room was quiet. Too quiet, maybe. And for a split second, his chest tightened.

Was she breathing?

…Of course she was. She had been every other time.

Still—

He crossed the room in careful steps, as if the floor might betray him, and leaned just slightly over the crib. There she was. Small. Still. Peaceful in a way he didn’t quite trust yet.

Tamaki held his breath.

A second passed.

Then another.

And then there it was. The faint rise of her chest. Soft. Steady.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it for hours.

“…Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than anything. “You’re okay.”

His fingers hovered over the edge of the crib, unsure, before lightly brushing against the blanket near her hand. Just enough to feel warmth, just enough to reassure himself she was real and here and safe.

What if she got too cold?

He frowned, adjusting the blanket by a fraction, then paused.

What if that was too much?

He stilled, staring at her like she might protest at any second. She didn’t. Just slept on, completely unaware of the crisis unfolding three inches away from her.

Tamaki swallowed.

He’d read the guides. All of them. Twice. He knew what he was doing. At least, he was supposed to.

But knowing and doing felt like two entirely different things.

“…I’m not messing this up, am I?” he murmured under his breath, turning to you.