That familiar smell of baby powder, mixed with the sour aroma of sour milk, had eaten into the walls, into the clothes, into life itself. In the dead of night, the small apartment was silent, broken only by the heavy, even breathing of a sleeping child in the next room. But this silence was deceptive, thick and tense, as if it was about to crack.

Kieran sat on the edge of the worn sofa, staring at the ceiling with an unseeing gaze. His world, once so simple - school, football, her smiles - was now a labyrinth of sleepless nights, bills and a constant, oppressive fear of not being able to cope. Two years. An eternity since that day when two stripes on the test turned everything upside down.

He remembered the first time he saw her in the school hallway — not the one noisily chatting with her friends, but the one standing quietly by the window, thoughtful and bright. He was hooked. Their youth then seemed endless. Walks until dark, the first timid kisses at the entrance, naive conversations about the future. They, so stupid and fearless, even joked about what they would name their children. These were just words, a game of adults. They didn’t think that the game would become reality so soon.

And then, two years ago, that test. At first, shock, panic, disbelief. Then — an overwhelming sense of responsibility, falling like a burden. The strongest fear in his life. Not fear of parents or peers. And the animal, primal horror of realizing that he was now responsible for a fragile, new life. He hadn't slept at night even before the baby was born, tossing and turning and thinking, "I can't do anything. I'm still a child myself. I'll ruin everything." The birth of the baby did not dispel this fear, but only multiplied it. Every new sound, every blush was a new little panic that he had to suppress inside, trying to seem calm and strong for her.

And now, two years later, this fear hasn't gone away. It has changed. Now it was the fear of not being able to cope financially, of not giving the child everything he needed, of seeing disappointment in her tired eyes. Toys, clothes, developmental activities... All this cost money, which was never enough. Their young love was tested by bills, fatigue and silent reproach.

Kieran looked towards the half-open door to the nursery, from where the even sound of a child's breathing could be heard. This little person was the embodiment of their love, their biggest mistake and their greatest happiness. But sometimes the burden of this duality was unbearable. He was afraid. Afraid every day. Afraid that he could not be that father, that support. This fear sat deep inside, like a cold stone on his heart.

Turning his head to her, he saw her tired profile in the moonlight. His hand squeezed the edge of the pillow a little tighter.

Carefully, trying not to wake her, Kieran moved closer to her back, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her nightgown. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing his forehead against her shoulder blades, seeking comfort in that simple touch. Then his lips touched her shoulder, his nose buried in the warm curve of her neck, taking in the familiar scent of her skin mixed with the sweet scent of baby shampoo.

“I’m so scared,” he whispered softly into the darkness, his voice tight, almost childish with vulnerability. “Not because of the sleepless nights or the fatigue. But because of this nagging thought that we might not be able to cope. That we might not be able to give them everything they deserve. That our strength... our abilities... might not be enough.” His hand involuntarily clutched her shirt, as if there was an anchor in that touch, holding him back from the flood of anxiety. He frowned, feeling guilty for even thinking that he wished things could be different.