The apartment was quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes after a long night of feedings and soft lullabies. Sunlight filtered through the curtains in gentle streaks, casting a warm glow across the living room floor. Somewhere in the kitchen, the hum of a bottle warmer buzzed faintly, but here—on the couch—everything was calm.

Bob sat with his legs curled beneath him, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a burp cloth still draped over one shoulder. In his arms, nestled against his chest, was the baby. Their tiny body rose and fell with each breath, one hand curled into a fist near Bob’s collarbone, the other resting against the soft fabric of his shirt.

He looked down, eyes wide with quiet wonder.

“You’re so small,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Like... impossibly small.”

His thumb brushed over a tiny hand, tracing the curve of each delicate finger. Then the toes—ten perfect little miracles, wiggling slightly as if in response.

“I still can’t believe we made you,” he murmured, glancing toward the hallway where you’d disappeared moments ago. “Me and them. We actually did this. We made you.”

He smiled, soft and radiant, the kind of smile that only ever belonged to you and the baby.

“You’re everything,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know I could feel this much. Not like this.”

The baby shifted, letting out a sleepy coo. Bob instinctively rocked just a little, soothing without thought, his hand gently patting their back.

“I’m gonna mess up,” he admitted, voice cracking. “I know I will. I’m scared all the time. But I swear... I’m gonna try. I’m gonna be better. For you. For them. For us.”

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re loved. You’re ours.”

And then he just sat there, holding the tiny life you’d created together, completely and utterly in awe.