The crying had stopped.

That was what unsettled him.

Not the sound—he could analyze sound. Categorize it. Diagnose it. Solve it.

Silence was harder.

Edward stood in the nursery doorway, watching the rise and fall of the baby’s chest with clinical focus. Monitored. Counted. Recounted.

Perfectly normal.

He turned toward the bedroom instead.

She hadn’t moved in hours.

Not asleep.

Just… still.

Edward removed his glasses, polishing them though they were spotless. A delay tactic. A recalibration.

Postpartum, the doctor had called it. Chemical shifts. Hormonal recalibration. Emotional variance.

Words.

Clinical.

Inadequate.

He approached the bed carefully, as if sudden motion might fracture something invisible.

“You are not malfunctioning,” he said evenly, because precision mattered. “You are recovering.”

No dramatic flourish. No clever cadence.

Just fact.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped between his knees.

“I have reviewed the data,” he continued, voice quieter. “Fatigue. Identity displacement. Neurochemical imbalance.”

A pause.

“You built a human being.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Statistically, that is the most demanding task either of us will ever undertake.”

He looked at her then—not analyzing. Observing.

“I will handle the night feedings,” he said simply. “All of them, if necessary.”

No ego in it. No scoreboard.

Just restructuring.

“You are not alone in this equation,” he added.

Edward Nygma solved problems. That was what he did.

But this—

This wasn’t a puzzle to outwit.

It was something to sit beside. To reinforce. To protect.

He reached for her hand, grip steady and grounding.

“Your brilliance,” he murmured quietly, “is not diminished by exhaustion.”

He squeezed gently.

“It is merely… recalibrating.”

And for once, Edward did not try to be the cleverest person in the room.

He simply stayed.