"Coming, little man," I say, already reaching into the crib.
He's warm and solid in my arms, face scrunched up in that expression that's pure Lena—indignant about the injustice of existence. His dark hair sticks up in all directions. Cruz hair with Quinn coloring. The perfect combination of everything I never knew I needed.
The crying stops the moment I pick him up. Like magic. Like he just needed to know someone was coming.
"Diaper or hungry?" I ask him, because I've started talking to my three-month-old like he can answer. "Let's check the diaper first."
The changing table is second nature now. Three months of this and I can change a diaper in the dark, one-handed, while half-asleep. It's not a skill I expected to develop, but here we are.
Clean diaper secured, I head to the kitchen for a bottle. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and Santiago's small sounds of impatience. Phoenix is still dark outside the windows, but dawn is threatening on the horizon—that purple-gray that comes before sunrise.
I prep the bottle on autopilot. Warm water, formula, shake, test temperature on my wrist. Another skill added to the unlikely list of things Zane Quinn knows how to do.
Santiago latches onto the bottle like he's been starving for days instead of fed three hours ago. His dark eyes focus on my face with that intense baby concentration that makes everything else disappear.
This is my favorite time. Just him and me. The world reduced to this small person and the weight of responsibility that sits heavier than any club duty ever did.
I count his breaths between swallows. Old habit. Grounding mechanism.
One: Bottles today (this is number one, probably won't be the last).
Two: Diaper changes (lost count yesterday, starting fresh today).
Three: Months of this beautiful chaos we call parenthood.
Four: Hours of sleep total last night (generous estimate).
"Your mom's a superhero," I tell Santiago quietly. "You know that, right? She does this and everything else. Clinic work, club politics, keeping us all alive. Meanwhile I'm over here proud of myself for successfully making a bottle."
Santiago's response is to keep eating and grip my finger with surprising strength.
"Yeah, I know. She's out of my league. But she said yes anyway. To me, to this, to the whole impossible thing." I adjust my hold, settle deeper into the rocking chair. "Your Tío Miguel still can't believe it. Neither can I, honestly."
The door opens softly. Lena appears in the doorway, backlit by hallway light, wearing one of my t-shirts and exhaustion like a second skin.
"You're up," I say.
"Your turn to sleep," she responds, but makes no move to go back to bed.
"Can't sleep anyway. My breasts are angry and my brain won't shut off."
I try not to smile at the clinical description. "Medical terminology for 'uncomfortable'?"
"Engorgement. Oversupply. General postpartum bullshit." She moves into the room, winces slightly. Still healing. Still recovering from the violence of creating life. "Want me to...?" I make a vague gesture toward the pump sitting on the dresser.
"You offering to pump my breasts? That's very progressive of you."
"I'm offering to help somehow. Even though I have no idea how."
Lena sits carefully in the chair next to mine, pulls her knees up. "Just being here helps."
We sit in comfortable silence. Santiago eating, Lena's breathing evening out, the first light of dawn creeping through the curtains. This is our life now—stolen moments of peace between crises, building a family one exhausted morning at a time.
"Joker called yesterday," I say quietly. "While you were at your first clinic appointment with Dr. Reeves."
"How's the club?"
"Stable. He's a good VP. Not Tommy, but good."
