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I’m a big guy. I’m used to hauling heavy gear, wrestling a yoke through hurricane-force winds, and knowing exactly how much strength to use without thinking about it.

Then they put my seven-pound, four-ounce daughter in my arms, and suddenly I don’t trust my own hands.

She’s so fucking small.

My fingers actually tremble as I adjust her against my chest, terrified I’m going to hold her wrong or squeeze too hard or somehow hurt this tiny person I already love more than anything.

I carry her back to the uncomfortable chair pulled right up to the edge of Goldie’s bed and carefully sit down, planting my feet flat on the floor to anchor myself.

Frankie’s face is still a little red. Her eyes are squeezed shut and shiny with antibiotic ointment, her tiny nose twitching as she takes these soft, snuffling breaths. A tuft of dark hair sticks out from the top of the little knit cap they shoved on her head.

"You look freaked out, Maverick," Goldie rasps.

I look up. She’s lying back against the pillows, looking like a mess. She’s pale and exhausted and absolutely perfect. They turned the epidural off, and I know she’s sore, but her eyes are shining as she watches us.

“I’m afraid I’m going to break her,” I admit, holding her close against my chest with both elbows tucked tight to my sides. “She’s so fucking small. Look at her.”

Goldie lets out a tired, soft laugh and shifts on the mattress, reaching a hand out. I lean forward, angling Frankie so Goldie can brush her knuckles against our daughter’s soft, round cheek.

"You're not going to break her," Goldie murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion. "Look at how she fits right into your hands. She was made for you.”

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. I look back down at Frankie. Her tiny hand wiggles out from the edge of the blanket. I offer her my pinky finger, and her impossibly small fingers wrap around it. Her grip is surprisingly strong.

A rough, choked sound scrapes up my throat. I lean down and press my lips to her warm forehead, breathing in her new baby smell.

"I texted Jenny," Goldie says after a minute, setting her phone on the table beside the bed. "I’m sure he’s out there terrorizing the nurses. He's been sending me panicked gifs of Michael Scott for the last hour."

Right on cue, a soft knock sounds at the door. It cracks open, and Colston’s face appears in the gap, his eyes darting around the room like he’s expecting to find a murder scene or something.

"Is it safe?" Colston whispers, looking anywhere but at Goldie.

I roll my eyes. "It’s safe. Get your ass in here."

The door pushes open, and Colston steps inside. He’s carrying two huge iced coffees in a cardboard carrier and a familiar pink bakery box. He sets them down on the rolling tray table, immediately walking over to the sink in the corner and pumping antibacterial soap into his hands.

"I'm washing up," he announces, scrubbing his hands like he’s about to scrub in for open-heart surgery. "Trace is gonna be so pissed I got to hold her first. I’m absolutely taking a picture to rub in his face. He's been talking shit in the group chat all morning."

Goldie grins from the bed. "You brought coffee and donuts. You can do almost no wrong right now."

Colston dries his hands on a paper towel and walks over to my chair. The jokes and the swagger completely vanish the second he looks down at Frankie. His mouth drops open a little, and he just stares at her, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air.

"Holy shit," he breathes out. "She’s perfect."

"You want to hold her?" I ask.

His head snaps up, his eyes going wide. "I don't know, man. What if her head flops around? I don't know how to do the neck thing.”

"Just support the back of her head," I tell him. “If I can do it, you can do it.” I stand up, keeping my palm securely behind Frankie's neck, and gently transfer her into Colston's arms. “You’ll be fine, Uncle Colston.”

Colston goes completely stiff, sort of wrapping himself around her. He stares down at the sleeping baby in his arms, his eyes shiny. A slow grin takes over his entire face, melting away all that chaotic golden-retriever energy into something soft.

"Hey, Frankie-baby," Colston whispers, his voice dropping into a gentle register I’ve never heard him use. "I'm your Uncle Colston. I’m the fun one, and I’m gonna be your favorite. I’m going to teach you how to curse and sneak you treats when your dad’s being a buzzkill."

"I’ll revoke your visiting privileges," I warn him, though I can't stop the smile pulling at my own mouth. Seeing my best friend hold my kid hits me in a way I didn’t expect.

Colston ignores the threat, carefully shifting his weight. "Get your phone out. I need a picture of this so I can send it to Trace."

I shake my head, but I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a quick photo of him grinning down at my daughter.