The hospital was quieter at dawn.
Not silent—never silent—but gentler. The machines didn't shriek; they breathed.
Nurses moved with practiced softness, voices kept low, shoes whispering over the floor. Light slipped through the blinds like it was asking permission.
Chris hadn't slept.
He sat in the chair beside Ashley's bed with their son tucked against his chest—small and warm, the kind of weight that felt like a miracle and a warning at the same time. The baby's breaths came in tiny, steady pulls, as if he'd already decided he belonged here.
Every few minutes, Chris looked down at him… then over at Ashley… then back again.
Like if he didn't keep checking, the universe might change its mind.
He adjusted the blanket around the baby, careful—too careful—like one wrong movement could undo the fragile peace holding the room together.
"You almost gave me a heart attack," he murmured, voice rough. "And I don't even know how to hold you right yet."
