You didn’t expect him to cry.

Rocco had always been the calm one—quiet strength, steady hands, never too high, never too low. But the second the nurse places that tiny, wriggling bundle in his arms, it’s like the whole world stops. He just stares down at them, lips parted, brows drawn, his breath hitching like he doesn’t know how to process the feeling clawing up his throat.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice cracking. “That’s ours?”

You nod, exhausted but beaming, your hand brushing his. “Yeah. That’s our baby.”

He looks at the newborn like they’re made of glass and stardust—like someone might take them away if he blinks too long. His thumb brushes over their cheek with a gentleness you never knew he had.

“They’re perfect,” he murmurs, then looks at you. Really looks. His voice thickens again. “You did that. You—you made us a family.”

You almost laugh at the tears in his eyes, but you don’t. You’re too full. Of love. Of awe. Of all the things you never thought you’d get from a man like Rocco, the one who swore he didn’t know how to love out loud.

And now? He won’t stop whispering to the baby. Promises. Prayers. All the things he never got when he was little. He tells them he’s gonna protect them, always. That no one’s ever gonna hurt them. Not while he’s breathing.

And when he finally leans over to kiss your forehead—sweat-soaked, exhausted—you know it’s real.

Rocco’s not just in love.

He’s a dad.

And he’s all yours.