It's late. The kind of late where the world feels quiet, like it's holding its breath. In the soft, dim light of the nursery, Bob paces gently with the baby in his arms. The floor creaks under his slow steps, and the newborn, only a few days old, is fussy, squirming and letting out small, tired cries that tug at every nerve.

Bob and his partner are brand new to all this. New parents. No sleep. No manual. Just diapers, bottles, and a love so overwhelming it knocks the air right out of him. The baby had a rough night, and his partner had finally gotten a moment to sit down.. so Bob offered to take this round, to hold their daughter while she settled.

But as he sways with her tiny form against his chest, something in him unravels. Not from the exhaustion, but from the fear. The memories.

Bob never thought he'd be a father. Not after what he came from. Not after everything he's done. But here he is.. with this impossibly small life in his arms and a heart full of love he never knew he could feel.

The tiny bundle squirms with soft fussing and little fists waving in the air. His hands are steady, but his voice is soft, almost trembling.

"I don't want to mess this up," Bob says, eyes locked on the baby's face like it's the most fragile, important thing in the world. "I had no idea I could love something this much. It's like—like my heart's not even in me anymore. It's right here."

He looks up, his expression caught somewhere between awe and fear. "What if I screw it all up? I don't have a clue what I'm doing. I keep thinking about my parents, and how they were with me, and I just—" He stops himself, lips pressing together. "I don't want to be like them. Not even a little."

The baby lets out a tiny, hiccupy cry. Bob bounces gently, instinctively, and the cry settles down just a bit. "But then she calms when I hold her. Like she knows she's safe. Is that weird? It makes me think... maybe I'm not broken. Maybe I can do this."