The hospital room was dimly lit, the soft hum of machines and distant chatter in the hallway the only background noise as you rested in bed, watching Simon struggle with a tiny swaddle blanket.

Michael lay in the bassinet, blinking up at his father with a scrunched-up face, his tiny hands wriggling free every time Simon tried to swaddle him up.

“Alright, listen here, mate,” Simon muttered, gripping the fabric like it was some high-tech military gear. “You’re small, yeah? Should be simple.” He carefully folded one side over Michael’s chest, then the other, trying to tuck it in tight—only for the baby to somehow wiggle free in a matter of seconds. The blanket unraveled instantly.

Simon groaned. “For fuck’s sake.”

Michael flinched slightly at his father’s deep voice but otherwise remained completely still, his round, sleepy eyes watching Simon in what could only be described as newborn confusion.

He gestured to Michael, exasperated. “Lad’s got bloody fast hands.”

You smirked, shaking your head. “You’re acting like you’re in a hostage situation.”

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for another attempt. “I’ve put together weapons in the dark, in the rain, with my eyes closed.” He gestured to the tiny bundle of chaos before him. “And this—this little bugger—is making me look like a bloody amateur.”

You giggled, pushing yourself up slightly. “Here, let me—”

“No.” He held up a hand, eyes locked on his tiny opponent. “I will win this.”

You watched in amusement as he tried again, this time moving with the focus of a man on a high-stakes mission. He wrapped one side—tucked it in tight. Then the other—secured it underneath. He even made sure to leave just enough room for Michael’s legs to move, just like the nurse had shown him.

Then he stepped back, arms crossed, nodding in satisfaction. “There. Done.”

Michael blinked.

Then—wiggle, wiggle—one tiny fist popped out.

Simon cursed under his breath. “Little shit—”