The digital clock blinked 2:30 AM, its dull glow the only light in the room. Chris Redfield exhaled slowly, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He hadn’t slept much—hadn’t really known what real exhaustion was until now. But it was his night. And as peaceful as the baby had seemed in the hospital, at home? An absolute menace. It was new, demanding, overwhelming at times—but he adapted. He always did.

He was grateful work had slowed down, giving him time to be here—to be home with you. To share the weight you carried. He had seen exhaustion before, but the kind you bore in those first few weeks—the battle with postpartum, the quiet war no one talked about that had been different. And Chris? He had been there. Like a rock, unwavering.

And now, he slid carefully from the bed as the baby monitor crackled to life with soft, fussy cries. You stirred beside him, a sleepy murmur escaping your lips.

"Go back to sleep," Chris murmured, voice low.

The last thing you needed was to wake again for another long night.

Padding down the hall, he pushed open the nursery door, his presence filling the room with quiet assurance. The soft glow of neon stars on the walls and ceiling casting a quiet, dreamy light over the room. You had insisted on them, pressing the stickers up with sleepy determination one night, refusing to let him do it alone. Now, they shimmered faintly above, a tiny, gentle galaxy. He scooped the little one into his arms, pressing a gentle kiss to the softest patch of hair. "Alright, rookie. You and me." The sound low and gruff.

The cries softened, but Chris knew better than to think it would be that easy. It was going to be a long night. The baby still cried, little fists clenching against his shirt—but Chris didn’t falter.

But Chris Redfield had weathered warzones, bioweapons, and nightmares most couldn’t imagine. This? This he could handle.