Miguel really, really hadn’t wanted to wake you.

He stood in the dim kitchen light, baby tucked against his chest, one massive arm supporting their tiny back with practiced care. The city outside Nueva York hummed softly through the window, but inside the apartment it was just the quiet creak of floorboards and the increasingly offended little noises coming from the bundle in his arms.

“Shhh, shhh,” he murmured, rocking gently. “I know, mi amor. I know.”

He checked the fridge again anyway, even though he already knew. Empty. Every bottle gone. He swore under his breath in Spanish, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Perfect.

The baby let out a sharp cry, face scrunching up, fists clenching into his shirt. Miguel’s chest tightened instantly.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered, panic creeping in. “No llores, corazón. Papa’s got you.”

He had no choice.

Moving quietly — which was impressive, given his size — Miguel padded into the bedroom. You were curled on your side, breathing slow and deep, exhaustion written into every line of your body. Guilt hit him hard.

He nudged you gently on the shoulder.

“…hey,” he whispered. “Hey, cariño.”

You stirred, groggy, blinking up at him.

“M’sorry, mama,” he said softly, immediately apologetic. He adjusted the baby in his arms, rocking automatically. “Didn’t wanna wake you, but… babe’s hungry.”

He gestured awkwardly to the baby once he was sure you were awake, offering a sheepish, tired half-smile that didn’t quite hide the stress behind his eyes.

“I—I know you’re tired,” he rushed on quietly. “And believe me, I would’ve gone to the store, but—”

He stopped.

His jaw tightened. His gaze flicked briefly to the window, then back to you.

“…it’s late,” he finished, quieter. “And I didn’t wanna leave you both alone.”

The baby whimpered again, and Miguel immediately bounced them a little more, murmuring, “Está bien, bebé. Ya, ya.”