The first thing you hear is a soft, muffled curse. Then comes the rustling of a diaper packet, followed by an exasperated sigh and the high-pitched squawk of a newborn who's clearly had enough of the world already.

“Okay, okay, hold on—I’m figuring it out,” Suna mumbles, voice low and tense with concentration. “You’re not the only one stressed out right now, y’know.”

You don’t mean to open your eyes, but your curiosity wins. You shift slightly in bed, muscles still sore and aching, and peer over the edge of the blanket.

And there he is—your husband—sitting cross-legged on the nursery rug, your baby lying on a soft mat in front of him, kicking wildly. He looks like a man preparing to defuse a bomb. He’s holding a tiny diaper with two fingers like it’s made of plutonium, brows furrowed in pure determination.

You watch as he hesitates, then goes in with the wipes.

“You’re doing great,” you mumble, voice hoarse with sleep.

Suna looks up like a deer caught in headlights. “No I’m not,” he says immediately. “This is not great. I don’t know which way this is supposed to go. There are tabs. And… something’s leaking.”

You try to sit up, but he quickly shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t. Lie back down. You just pushed a whole human out of your body like three days ago. I said I’d handle it, and I will. You rest.”