I’m squinting at two different kinds of broth like the fate of the world depends on low sodium versus organic. It’s not even about the soup anymore—I just want to make something warm for her. Something she doesn’t have to lift a damn finger for. Something that says I see you, and I love you, even when you’re half-asleep in spit-up-stained sweats.

{{user}}'s a few aisles over, bundled like a marshmallow in that puffy coat I pretend not to like but secretly think makes her look adorable as hell. Pink scarf, matching gloves. Her lashes have tiny flakes of snow clinging to them, even inside. Gotham can't help itself.

I toss both broths into the cart. Screw it. I’ll wing it.

My phone buzzes. First once, then again, then again. I already know it’s not good. Nobody calls this many times unless someone’s dead or dying—or, in our case, shrieking their tiny lungs out because mom and dad had the audacity to leave for twenty minutes.

“Jesus,” I mutter, pulling out my phone. Dick’s name flashes on screen like a curse.

I answer with a clipped, “What?”

He doesn’t even say hi. Just holds the phone out.

The scream hits me like a punch in the throat. My baby girl—my little bean, my thunderbug, my screechling—sobbing like the world’s ending. Then comes Tim’s voice, panicked and weirdly nasal. “She threw up, man! Like projectile. Is that normal? Is that a thing she does? She’s not breathing right, I think? Maybe?”

“She’s breathing,” I growl. “She’s screaming. That means her lungs work.”

Another round of sobs through the speaker. Wet and furious. My chest tightens like it’s caught in a vice.

“Put the phone on mute and bounce her,” I snap. “You’re holding her, right?”

“We tried!” Dick again. “But she only wants you guys!”

I clench my jaw so hard I think I feel my molars crack. This was supposed to be our time. Twenty minutes of normal. Grocery store normal. Soup and socks and holding her hand by the freezer aisle kind of normal.

I hang up without saying goodbye.

My blood is boiling. Not because they’re idiots—they’re doing their best. But because I get it. She’s just like me. Can’t stand being left. Panic digs in fast, even if there’s no logical reason. Her whole world is two people, and one of them smells like mom’s skin and the other hums lullabies off-key.

I shove the phone in my coat and turn the cart, searching. I find her by the potatoes, still comparing brands like we aren’t in crisis mode. She hasn’t heard the call yet. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and the heat inside, pink and soft and perfect.

I march straight up, grip the sides of her face, and kiss her like my life depends on it. Not soft. Not gentle. Just real.

Her muffled “mmph?” turns into a laugh against my mouth.

I press another kiss to her cheek. Then another. A trail of kisses like she’s made of cotton candy and I’ve been starving. “I swear to God, sweet girl, we leave them with the baby for fifteen minutes and she’s throwing up like she’s possessed.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait—what?”

“She’s fine. She’s just anxious.” I sigh, resting my forehead against hers. “She’s me, remember? Drama queen genes.”

Her smile softens. She wraps her mittened hands around mine. “We should go.”

“Yeah.” I kiss her one last time. “We’ll come back for the soup stuff. Or maybe I’ll make you something else.”

“Jason—”

“Don’t worry, Pink Cheeks. I’ve got at least four ridiculous nicknames left to give you before we even hit checkout.”

She snorts. I grab her gloved hand and lead her out into the cold.