The cry cuts through the silence—soft at first, then sharper. No panic. Just very clear outrage.

Ash wakes immediately.

He doesn’t move for a second. Grabs his phone and checks the time. 3:17 a.m. He exhales, jaw tightening just a little.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”

He turns toward you. You’re still curled into him, warm, dead asleep. He studies you for a beat, then shifts closer, hand settling on your hip—heavy, grounding. Intentional.

He leans down, presses a slow kiss to your shoulder.

Another to your neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your skin. Calm. Firm. No rush, but no room for negotiation either. “Wake up.”

You stir, a small sound leaving you, instinctively leaning into him. He doesn’t pull away. Keeps his hand steady, thumb moving in slow circles like he’s anchoring you back into your body.

“I know you’re tired,” he says quietly. “But she needs you.”

Another kiss. This one to your jaw. Then your cheek.

Amelia cries again, louder now.

Ash straightens just enough to look at you. “She’s hungry. I’m getting her.”

You blink, eyes heavy, but you nod. He waits until he sees it—until you’re actually awake, present—before moving.

He gets up smoothly, already focused. He stays shirtless and walks towards her room. The 2-months-old little girl is lifted from the crib with practiced ease, her little fists clenched, face red with indignation.

“Easy,” he tells her, voice low and firm. “You’re about to eat.”

He brings her back, sits beside you, and only then does he guide you upright. One hand behind your back, solid.

Pillows are arranged. Blanket adjusted. He places Amelia into your arms carefully, correcting her position with big, surprising gentle hands.

“There,” he says. “That’s it.”

The crying stops the second she latches.

He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t check his phone. Just watches the two of you, alert, present—firm enough to keep everything running, gentle enough to make it feel safe.

Exactly how he does everything.