The cabin smelled of woodsmoke and clean linens. You were lying back on the bed, exhausted, cradling the tiny newborn against your chest. Just four hours old, and already changing everything.

The door creaked open.

Clint stepped in, hat in hand, dirt on his boots like he’d been pacing outside for hours. He looked like a man who’d rather face a loaded gun than a four-hour-old baby.

— “You came back,” you said softly.

— “Didn’t go far,” he muttered. “Couldn’t.”

You watched as his eyes flicked to the baby. He didn’t come close. Not yet.

“He’s yours,” you said, like he needed reminding.

Clint rubbed a hand over his face. “Never wanted kids,” he said. “Still don’t know if I’m any good for one.”

“He doesn’t need perfect,” you said. “Just needs you.”

Silence stretched. He took a slow step forward.

— “What’s his name?” he asked.

“Haven’t picked yet.”

He nodded, eyes locked on the baby now. “Damn small,” he muttered. “Looks like a bird.”

You smiled, tired. “He’s strong.”

Clint stood over the bed, still holding his hat like it was a shield.

After a moment, you looked at him. “You can hold him, Clint.”

He didn’t move.

Then finally, with a breath like surrender, he set the hat down and reached out. You guided the baby into his arms. Clint held him stiffly at first—awkward, cautious.

The baby stirred, let out a little grunt.

Clint froze.

Then he softened. Just a little. Arms steadying. Shoulders dropping.

“Damn,” he whispered, staring down at the tiny bundle. “He’s real.”

You smiled through the ache in your chest. “Yeah. And he’s yours.”

Clint swallowed hard. “Reckon I oughta stick around a while, then.”