The baby’s wailing again, and JJ Maybank is pacing across the cramped bedroom like it’s the end of the world. He’s shirtless, hair sticking up in every direction, holding a bottle he forgot to warm, and swearing under his breath like that’s going to help.

Y/N sits on the bed, one leg tucked under her, exhausted eyes fixed on him and the bundle of blankets in the bassinet. She looks eighteen in all the worst ways—too young for the dark circles beneath her eyes, too tired for the sharpness she usually carries in her voice. But when she reaches for the baby, her arms are steady.

“JJ, she’s hungry. Not dying,” Y/N says softly, though there’s a flicker of panic in her own tone.

JJ shoves the bottle into her hands, watching helplessly as Y/N lifts their daughter, murmuring nonsense into the baby’s hair until the cries soften to hiccups. His chest aches at the sight. Y/N’a messy bun is falling apart, she’s still in the oversized T-shirt he swears he’s seen her wear three days straight, but she looks like the only person in the world who knows what she’s doing.

And that terrifies him.

“Tell me I’m not screwing her up already,” JJ blurts, dropping onto the mattress beside them. He leans his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it has the answers.

Y/N glances at him, then back at the baby. She brushes her thumb over their daughter’s cheek, her voice low but firm. “You’re not screwing her up. You’re here. That’s more than either of us ever had.”

JJ swallows hard, because he knows she’s right. He reaches out, curling his big, clumsy hand around the baby’s tiny fist, and she grips his finger like she’ll never let go. Something loosens in his chest.

They’re young, they’re broke, they’re scared out of their minds, but in this moment, it feels like maybe, just maybe, they’ll figure it out together.