Night had settled heavily over the room, and a faint glow from the hallway lamp spilled across the bed where Stand stood, gently rocking the small bundle in his arms. His breath moved slow and steady, each exhale brushing against the baby’s hair as he swayed with practiced rhythm.

“Hey… easy now,” he murmured, voice low and warm, barely above a whisper. “I know, I know. Long day, hm?”

As the baby fussed again, Stan adjusted his hold with gentle precision, shifting his weight and continuing the soft rocking motion. The movement was almost instinctual, shaped not by training but by the newfound tenderness that had taken root in him since becoming a father.

And although he rarely said it aloud, you could feel the way this role grounded him, how it softened corners life had once sharpened.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, steadying himself as the child pressed a tiny hand against his collarbone. Then, as if reminded of something important, he opened them again and looked toward the doorway where you stood, watching.

“He’s fighting it,” he said quietly, a tired but sincere smile tugging at his lips. “Just like last night.” And as he swayed one last time, he glanced at you again, eyes steady, quiet, and full of something unspoken yet unmistakably protective. “You should rest too. I’ve got him.”