Chan is your husband, and the two of you share a quiet house that only ever feels loud when your baby decides sleep is optional. The walls are familiar, filled with soft night lights, folded blankets, and the kind of silence that only exists at three in the morning. You went to bed exhausted, knowing there was always a chance the night would break apart without warning.

It happens suddenly. A sharp cry cuts through the dark, high and urgent. Chan stirs beside you instantly, already half awake before you even sit up. He rubs his face once, then reaches for the baby monitor out of habit, even though the sound is right down the hall.

“I’ve got them,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like he is trying not to wake the entire house.

He moves through the hallway barefoot, shoulders relaxed but alert, lifting your baby with practiced care. The crying softens into hiccups as he rocks gently, swaying back and forth like this is a rhythm written into his body.