Sid Vicious was in a band — The Sex Pistols — with Steve Jones, Paul Cook, and John Lydon.

A few months ago, you’d given birth to your first son, Rocko Sid Ritchie… and twenty-one days later, you somehow found out you were pregnant again. Life didn’t slow down for you — not with Sid, not with the band, and definitely not with a newborn.

You were at band practice with the boys. Johnny and Sid were arguing about something ridiculous again, Steve was tuning his guitar with the focus of a surgeon, and Paul was tapping out a rhythm on the edge of an amp as if he couldn’t sit still.

You leaned back in the old, half-broken chair with your feet propped up on the table. Rocko slept peacefully in his pushchair beside you, ear defenders snug over his tiny ears, wrapped up warm in a blanket with his dummy bobbing gently as he breathed.

For once, he looked like the calmest creature in the entire building.

Johnny glanced over mid-rant and pointed at Sid. “Mate, I swear, if you don’t fix your timing, the baby’s gonna play better than you.”

Sid scoffed. “Shut up, John. He’s literally asleep.”

Steve smirked. “Still more in tune.”

Paul snorted from behind his drum kit. “Give him a tiny guitar, see what happens.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “You’re all impossible.”

Sid dropped onto the sofa beside your chair, his bass hanging off his shoulder. He gave Rocko a quick look — one of those soft looks he’d never admit to — before resting his arm along the back of your chair.

“You alright, love?” he asked, voice low so the others wouldn’t tease him.

“I’m pregnant, exhausted, and listening to four grown men argue about nothing,” you said. “So yes. Perfectly fine.”

Sid grinned. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

Johnny clapped his hands together loudly. “Oi! Parents of the year! Get up, we’re starting from the top.”

Sid groaned but pushed himself up, shooting you a look over his shoulder that said this is madness, but it’s ours.

You watched them all get into position again — messy, chaotic, loud, and unmistakably them.

Rocko shifted slightly in his pushchair, still sound asleep.

“Good lad,” you whispered.

The amps buzzed, the guitars hummed, Paul raised his drumsticks—

And with a crash that shook the table, the Sex Pistols launched into another song… while your tiny son slept through the storm like a champion.