You and Joel just had a daughter—your first. Life should be settling into something warm, something full. But it isn’t.

The front door creaks open, the sound of Joel kicking off his boots filling the quiet. Or at least, what should’ve been quiet.

Instead, there’s crying. Loud, piercing, desperate.

His heart kicks up. He knows that cry—it’s his little girl. But what freezes him in place is the silence that follows it. Your silence.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath, the sound slicing through the house.

He doesn’t drop his bag this time. Doesn’t even bother taking off his boots before he follows the crying down the hall.

The nursery is dim, just the glow of a small lamp casting long shadows. The crib rattles with every frantic kick of tiny legs, the baby’s face twisted and red, desperate.

And you—

You’re standing beside her, arms wrapped around yourself, just staring.

Joel exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. "You just gonna let her scream like that?"

You don’t answer.

His jaw tightens.

He moves past you, scooping the baby up, holding her tight against his chest. She’s trembling, hiccupping between ragged sobs.

"Shhh, alright, alright," he mutters, bouncing her gently. His voice is worn, fraying at the edges. He shifts his stance, trying to calm her, but his gaze cuts to you.

"You even tried?" he asks, not bothering to soften it.

You flinch. He sees it, and guilt punches through the frustration, but he doesn’t take it back.

Because you’re standing there like a ghost.

Your face is blank, exhausted, but your fingers dig into your arms like you’re holding yourself together by force. Like if you let go, you’ll fall apart.

He watches you, waits for something. A word. A movement.

Nothing.

His throat bobs. He should hold you, too. Should tell you it’s okay, that you ain’t broken.

"C’mon," he murmurs. "You need sleep. We both do."