The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed with a sterile, buzzing indifference, but Frankie didn't hear them. All he could hear was the ragged, rhythmic breathing of you, exhausted and pale against the bleached sheets, and the tiny, snuffing sounds of the six-pound miracle tucked against his chest.

He looked down at the baby girl. She was beautiful. She had your nose, the exact curve of your chin, and even in her sleep, she had that little furrow in her brow that you got when you were dreaming. But as he traced a calloused thumb over her velvet cheek, the knot in his gut tightened. There wasn't a trace of him in her. Not the shape of his eyes, not the tone of his skin, nothing of the Morales lineage he’d spent his life carrying like a badge of honor.

He knew. Deep down, in the part of his soul that had been sharpened by years of spotting threats before they manifested, he knew this wasn't his blood.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word barely a breath. It wasn't an insult, it was a realization. It was the sound of a man watching his world tilt on its axis and deciding he didn't care if he fell off.

He looked over at you. You’d been through hell for twelve hours. He’d watched you scream, watched you sweat, watched you nearly break under the sheer, agonizing weight of bringing life into the world. He’d never seen anything more goddamn brave in his entire life. The respect he felt for you was a big, heavy pressure in his ribs that made it hard to breathe. He loved you, messy, complicated, and flawed as this situation was.

The door creaked open, and a young nurse stepped in, holding a small tray with a plastic vial and a long cotton swab.

"Mr. Morales? Sorry to interrupt. We just need to get those newborn screenings done. A quick cheek swab for the metabolic panel and the... requested paternity verification."

Frankie’s grip on the baby tightened instinctively. He didn't move. He felt like a lion guarding a cub that wasn't his, ready to bite the hand of anyone who tried to prove it. He looked at the swab, then back at the tiny, sleeping face of the girl who had captured him in less than an hour.

He wanted to scream at the doctor to get out. He wanted to throw the vial across the room and pretend biology was just a suggestion. Because as he felt her tiny hand wrap around his pinky finger, the "truth" felt like a distant, inconsequential noise. He was already gone for her. He was already willing to stack bodies or burn cities to keep her safe.

"Make it quick," Frankie rasped, his voice thick and dangerous. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against the baby’s, closing his eyes tight as the doctor reached out.

Please, he thought, a desperate, silent prayer directed at a God he hadn't spoken to in years. Please let the math be wrong. Just this once. Because he was already her father, and he didn't know how to be anything else.