You find Simon standing in the middle of the nursery like he’s wandered into unfamiliar territory.

He’s holding your newborn daughter as if she might shatter—arms stiff, eyes flicking between her pink onesie and the clear warning sign of a full nappy. You’re watching from the doorway, trying not to laugh, because you know the only thing keeping him from calling for help is his pride.

“She’s glaring at me,” he mutters. “She knows I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“She’s three days old, love.”

“She’s still judging me.”

You walk over and gently take her from his arms, laying her on the changing table. Simon hovers nearby, looking ready to observe and take mental notes. His eyes widen as you open the nappy.

“Oh… that’s horrifying.”

You snort. “It’s normal. Newborn poop is just… different, it’s something to do with what was left from before birth and their bodies adjusting to milk.”

He nods slowly, like he’s adjusting to a whole new reality. You hand him a wipe.

“Go on. You can handle this.”

He hesitates, then takes it like it might turn on him. He glances at your daughter, then at the mess.

“Where do I even start? I don’t know how to clean girls. What if I hurt her?”

“You won’t. She’s little, but she’s tougher than she looks.”

“Still feels like I need an instruction manual.”

You laugh and rest a hand on his back. “You’ll figure it out.”

With a deep breath, Simon carefully begins, whispering apologies as he works. She squirms. He freezes. She makes a tiny squeaky sound, and he jumps like she barked at him.

“She made a noise. Is that okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s probably wondering why her dad’s acting like she’s radioactive.”

He looks down at her, and something in his expression shifts. Maybe it’s the way her tiny fingers wrap around his pinky, or how her sleepy eyes find his, full of trust.

“I really don’t know what I’m doing,” he says softly.