Inlovewithfictionalmenholic

The Cody house can be a very uncouth place to be.

Loud in every way possible, in volume and temperament too. Filthy-mouthed. Mean for the pleasure of it.

Craig says something disgusting every third sentence just to hear himself say it, just to get a laugh, just to see who flinches and who doesn’t. Deran’s no better when he’s in the mood to needle. And Smurf, when she wants to, can make a whole room feel dirty with one lifted eyebrow and six words.

Pope has never minded crude things. Never saw much use in pretending to. This place is what it is. He’s used to it. This is his life. This is simply the way he grew up.

But now you’re here, Smurf’s latest little acquisition, her new ornament to polish and put in the window.

Another pretty doll in her crooked collection. All polished and docile and good manners, brought in to handle the things Smurf considers beneath her. Logistics. Errands. Paperwork. Loose ends. The harmless-sounding parts, at least on the surface. 

Pope can’t decide how much you actually know. About any of it, really — where the money comes from, whose hands get dirty, which names to never mention again.

He bets you don’t ask, though, and Smurf must love that. Probably loves that you move through the work the way you do everything else: sweet and unassuming, smiling vacantly like you’re still asleep, floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, eyes closed, nothing beneath you but endless dark water.

Open-hearted, oblivious, too easy and good to survive here.

So now the vulgarity of the Cody house grates on him. Makes him tense. Makes his shoulders bunch up near his ears. 

“So this chick tells me she can take it, right? Says she can handle anything. Five minutes later she’s cryin’, tellin’ me it’s too good.”

You stand against the fridge, spoon paused midway to your lips, yogurt abandoned as Craig’s drunk slurred chatter hangs in the air.

Pope watches closely, your expression a cloudy haze, eyes soft and curious and unaffected by words that should shock you into silence.

Pope’s fingers twitch at his side, the urge rising like nausea to shake you awake, to wrench you away to somewhere safe. 

He stays rooted instead, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping still as your curious voice cuts through the air.

“Why would she be crying?”

Craig looks at you blankly, his mouth hanging open as incredulity colors his face, like he’s never encountered something quiet so baffling.

A clueless girl in the Cody kitchen. It’s almost funny. It’s definitely not funny to Pope.

Deran, at least, thinks it’s funny, he makes a garbled choking sound and swivels away, a strangled laugh breaking through his arm. 

Craig continues to gape, finally managing a long breath, punctuated by hard edges: “Are you fuckin’ serious?” He tries again, mouth twisting into a smirk as he attempts an explanation, “I mean sometimes people cry when they’re gettin’ fu —”

Pope moves before his brain can catch up. His body knows something his mind hasn’t yet processed, and one second he’s pressed flat and invisible against the wall; the next he’s behind you, palms cupping over your ears. 

Your startled intake of breath dies softly under his touch, your confusion vibrating delicately against his fingertips.

“Don’t,” he growls, gaze sharp, locked onto his sibling’s stunned face. “You finish that sentence and you’ll spend the afternoon putting your jaw back together.”

Craig shakes his head. “The fuck's wrong with you? She's a grown woman. What, you think she's gonna burst into flames if she hears the word sex?” 

Pope’s eyes darken, narrowing into slits as he tightens his hold ever-so-slightly around your ears. 

“Maybe she will. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”

Craig lets out a low laugh, running his hand through his hair like this whole standoff is just another joke, palms upraised like he’s dealing with a wild animal.

“Alright. Relax. Whatever you say, man.” 

Pope watches him retreat out of the room, Deran trailing not far behind him, likely to finish his story elsewhere.

And that’s fine. As long as he stays over there and out of ear shot of you.

The tension lingering in his tendons only just starts to loosen when he’s out by the pool.

He feels your hands reach up to pull his wrists away from your ears, fingers tentative around his rough palms. Rough palms that make him notice just how soft you feel, petal-pink nails sinking into the course terrain of his own skin.

The contrast is jarring. Scarred knuckles, raised veins, and a web of old cuts meeting hands that have never know real violence.

You pivot in his space, turning to stand toe-to-toe with him. 

You smell like whipped vanilla and candied pears. He forces himself not to lean closer, not to draw in another desperate breath because he wants to pin the scent down, memorize it, peel it apart note by note until he knows exactly what clings to your skin and your hair and your clothes.

“What was that for?” you ask.

Pope looks at you. “You don’t need Craig ‘splainin’ things to you.”

“Does that mean you’d rather explain things to me?”

Is that what he meant? Pope isn’t sure, and the uncertainty bothers him more than he wants to admit. The idea of you coming to him with your honest confusion, earnestly asking him to explain the gritty specifics of things he can hardly voice — no, that sounds like a terrible idea.

You have to know the basics, surely. Isn’t that enough? Pope thinks so. He thinks, really, the less detail you know, the safer your carefully maintained sense of self remains. The longer you stay wrapped in that protective bubble, unblemished by knowledge you shouldn’t have, the better.

Pope doesn't want to be the one who breaks it open. 

“I’m no good at explaining things like that,” he says finally. “Just don’t need Craig putting ideas in your head either. Or anyone else for that matter.”

You take a small step back, and Pope feels like he’s finally getting air into his lungs again. It’s short-lived. You scoop another spoonful of yogurt into your mouth, pretty lips pursed around the spoon, before you tilt your head and look at him thoughtfully. 

“Then… how am I supposed to learn anything?” you ask.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware of the incremental tightening of his pants. Fucking pathetic, he thinks.

He clenches his jaw tight before speaking. “You don’t need to know everything. Some things you’re better off not knowing, yeah?”

Your brows knit together. “But wouldn’t it be better if I at least knew —”

Pope cuts you off sharper than he intends. “No. You heard me. Drop it.”

You look away from him, nodding as your shoulders sink a little. “Right. Sorry.”

The frown on your face settles like a shadow Pope desperately wants to wipe away.

It sits wrong there, out of place, disturbing, even. He realizes, abruptly, that he hates seeing you even the tiniest bit upset. He’s not used to it; your smiles come so easily that your unhappiness feels tangible, something he’s placed there.

Something he’s responsible for. It’s rare to see your features drawn up like this. 

God, he’s really fucking this up, isn’t he?

He’s always been a little awkward, always a little too blunt, and no good at smoothing things over. He doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t understand how to mend whatever he’s broken. Maybe that’s always been the problem, that hollow feeling at the back of his brain, the missing part, the empty gap everyone else seems born knowing how to fill.

“Shit, listen, kid,” Pope clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it, alright? I just meant Craig talks a lot of bullshit and there’s stuff said around here that you really don’t need to learn. But —” He sighs, glancing down at his knuckles. “You’re an adult. If you wanna know things, it’s your call.”

You lift yourself onto the counter, legs swinging gently as you bring another distracted spoonful of yogurt to your mouth. 

“So if I do decide I wanna know something…” You pause, eyes turned up to the ceiling as if testing the air, probing at an unknown territory. “You’ll tell me about it?”

“Yeah,” Pope says slowly. 

He can’t quite meet your gaze, his eyes tracking the linoleum pattern like it’s the most compelling thing in the room. He knows he has no real choice in the matter. Better he’s the one who delivers the hard truth rather than you seeking answers elsewhere. With someone else.

“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into something quieter, almost shy now. You lift on foot onto the counter, unthinking, the fabric of your skirt slipping upward. Soft pink underwear flashes at the edge of Pope’s vision. “Why exactly was that girl crying — with Craig?”

He takes two steps towards you, broad shoulders angled slightly to shield you from the rest of the room should someone walk in.

He keeps his eyes steadfastly fixed on your face, even as his fingers curl tense at his side, nails biting deep into his palms. 

It’s torture, but he doesn’t glance down. Not even for a second.

He hesitates at your question, searching for words that fit just right. He’s not sure he’ll find them, but he forces himself through it anyway.

“Craig was, uh — he was tryin’ to say she was crying because the sex was good, I guess. But, it’s not always just that. People cry for all kinds of reasons during sex. Could be physical, emotional, whatever. It’s complicated sometimes.” He pauses again, clearing his throat. “People have complex reactions to physical stuff like that.”

“Have you ever —?” Your teeth press carefully into your lower lip. He can see the follow-up question forming in your eyes. “Have you ever cried, you know… during?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, uncomfortable already. “Happens.” 

The word feels too small for it. Happens. Like it’s the same as catching a cold. 

“Oh.” 

And then his brain takes a turn and he’s picturing you. A common theme. You with glassy and wide eyes, dark mascara streaking down your cheeks in inky lines as he pounds inside you.

He can almost hear your breath catching, a soft sob, the slick slide of tears along your face for him to kiss away. 

Given your question, Pope doubts you’ve ever felt something so intensely vulnerable. Probably never cried during sex.

Maybe you haven’t even had sex, though he tries not to assume things. Still, it seems likely, given your blushes, your hesitations, the way your eyes widen at even the most indirect innuendos. You could have some scattered experiences, maybe, fragments of intimacy without ever fully grasping how it all works. 

He doesn’t like the sudden flare of possessiveness he feels; he doesn’t want to imagine anyone else ever seeing you like that. 

Pope clears his throat, banishing the image away. “So, uh, did that… answer what you wanted to know? You satisfied now, or?”

Your fingers move to twist the hem of your skirt. You look up through your lashes.

“Yeah,” you murmur finally, a little unsure and entirely too sweet. “I mean, I think so. For now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You let me know if that changes, then.”

Craig’s voice cuts through the kitchen before either of you can say anything else, his footsteps heavier than usual as he strides back inside from the glass doors.

Pope reaches out and pulls your leg down, adjusting the hem of your skirt in the process.

His skin burns from where he touched you. 

“I’m tellin’ you, if she can’t fit both —”

Pope interrupts him by stepping forward, giving him a swift shove against the wall. Hard. Craig smacks shoulder-first into the wall with a loud thunk.

“Jesus, Pope. What’s your damage today?”

Pope steps back with a neutral expression, shaking out the tension in his knuckles. “Just doing everyone a favor.”

He avoids your eyes, heat still burning up the back of his neck.

A/N - this reader series will be a lil different than my usual i think... will end up being pretty dark and twisty!!! read at your own risk! and to reiterate!! if you don't like, don't read!

author's note: again, tysm for showing this series so much love <33 not sure how long it will be yet but i have some ideas in mind. i've done my best to keep up with the taglist but i apologise if ive missed anyone!

author's note: tysm for the positive responses to part one! wanted this one to be a bit longer but didn't want to get too carried away. they're fun to make so hopefully the next part won't take too long!

By the time Andie was eight months old, Andrew's voice had become one of the ordinary sounds of the house.

It lived in the nursery beside the wooden duck with the crooked beak. It came through the little approved player during bedtime, nap time, teething time, and the terrible half hour before dinner when Andie seemed to remember suddenly and personally that she was a baby and therefore had grievances.

There was the duck book, still the favourite.

The bear book, which Andrew had read so seriously you had cried laughing the first time you played it.

The moon book, which always made Andie go quiet.

And the rabbit book.

The stupid rabbit book.

Andrew still claimed he hated it, even though he had recorded it three times because the first version had "too much page noise" and the second had "bad pacing," whatever that meant when the intended audience regularly tried to eat her own socks.

His voice had talked Andie through colic.

Through teething.

Through nap strikes.

Through one memorable evening where she screamed every time you sat down, then stopped immediately when Andrew's recording said, "Hi, baby girl. It's me," like she had simply been waiting for the correct parent to arrive.

You had told him that on the phone.

He had gone quiet for so long you thought the call had dropped.

Then he said, very softly, "She's got standards."

You had laughed so hard Andie had startled awake.

Now there were photos everywhere.

Andrew holding Andie during the contact visit, your head resting against his shoulder.

Andie smiling at his voice, the photo slightly blurry but perfect anyway.

A newer picture of Andrew from a visit, his hand pressed to the glass while Andie's little palm rested opposite his. She had been too young to understand it then. Now, sometimes, she slapped at the photo like she was trying to get his attention.

The nursery had changed too.

The rocking chair still creaked.

The green walls were still soft and warm.

But now there were baskets of toys, board books with chewed corners, soft blocks, rattles, tiny socks that appeared in places socks had no business being, and one wooden duck that had been moved to a higher shelf after Andie tried to put the entire thing in her mouth.

Andrew had been horrified.

"She can't eat the duck," he had said.

"She didn't eat the duck."

"She tried."

"She tries to eat everything."

"Move it."

"I moved it."

"Higher."

"Andrew."

"Higher."

So the duck lived on the high shelf now, safely above Andie's reach, looking down over the room like a tiny wooden guardian with a questionable beak.

You loved it more than most furniture.

That afternoon, Andrew's bear recording was playing in the living room while Craig tried to install a baby gate between the hall and kitchen.

Tried was the key word.

He had been at it for forty minutes.

The gate was still not attached.

Deran sat on the sofa eating crisps and pretending not to be entertained by the whole thing.

Andie sat on the rug in the middle of the room, surrounded by toys, one soft block in each hand, dark hair curling slightly at the back of her head, cheeks round, eyes bright, mouth shiny from drool.

She had started crawling two weeks ago.

Not properly at first.

More like dragging herself forward with sheer determination and one suspiciously strong leg.

Now she was fast.

Too fast.

Alarmingly fast.

You had turned around yesterday and found her halfway under the coffee table, chewing the edge of an unopened packet of wipes like she had paid rent and could do what she liked.

Hence the baby gate.

Craig muttered something under his breath and glared at the instructions.

You folded laundry at the end of the sofa, half watching him, half watching Andie, because motherhood had given you the ability to see in several directions at once and still somehow miss where the dummy went.

"You're holding it backwards," Deran said.

Craig did not look up. "I am not."

"You are."

"I'm reading the instructions."

"That's worse."

Craig lifted the paper. "How is reading the instructions worse?"

"Because you're still holding it backwards."

You glanced over.

"He's right."

Craig slowly lowered the instructions and looked at you.

You smiled.

"Sorry."

"You are not sorry."

"No, I'm not."

Deran crunched another crisp. "Pope would've had it done by now."

Craig pointed a screwdriver at him. "Pope would've hated the instructions and then pretended he didn't need them."

"Yeah, but it'd be done."

"It would be crooked."

"It would be secure."

"Those are different things."

On the rug, Andie slapped one block against the other.

"Ba," she announced.

All three of you looked at her.

She stared back, delighted with the power of sound.

"Ba-ba-ba."

You smiled automatically.

"That's right," you said. "Tell them."

Craig softened immediately, despite himself. "Yeah? You telling him he's useless?"

Deran leaned forward. "Don't put that on her. She likes me."

"She tolerates you."

"She smiles when I walk in."

"She smiles at ceiling fans too."

"Ceiling fans are funny."

Andie flapped both arms.

Andrew's voice played from the small speaker on the side table.

"And the bear went looking for the moon."

Andie turned her head toward the sound.

You noticed because you always noticed.

Even after months of it, the little turn still pulled at something inside you.

She knew him.

Not in the way she knew you.

Not in the bodily, constant, milk-and-sleep-and-skin way she knew you.

But she knew him.

His voice.

His rhythm.

The low softness he used only for her.

Andie dropped one block.

"Da," she said.

Your hands went still in the laundry.

Craig froze with the screwdriver in midair.

Deran, without missing a beat, said, "No."

You looked at him.

"I didn't say anything."

"You had the face."

"What face?"

"The mother face."

"I do not have a mother face."

"You absolutely have a mother face."

Craig was still staring at Andie. "She did say da."

Deran pointed at him. "Don't encourage it."

Craig blinked. "She did."

"Babies make sounds."

You sat forward slowly, heart suddenly thudding.

Andrew's recording continued.

"The bear was very tired."

Andie bounced slightly where she sat, hands on her knees, gummy little mouth working around another sound.

"Da."

Craig's expression changed.

Deran stopped chewing.

You whispered, "Where's Daddy, baby?"

Deran looked at you. "You're escalating."

"Shh."

Andrew's photo sat on the low shelf beside the stack of board books. Not the wooden duck shelf, because that one was now practically a museum exhibit, but the lower shelf with the soft toys and the approved player. In the photo, Andrew was on the other side of the visiting glass, palm pressed flat, eyes fixed on Andie with that expression that still made your chest hurt if you looked too long.

You pointed gently.

"Where's Daddy?"

Andie followed your hand.

Maybe.

Or maybe she just looked at the bright square on the shelf because babies were mysterious and often unhelpful.

Then Andrew's recorded voice said, "Hi, Andie. It's me."

Andie grinned.

Your breath caught.

She slapped one hand down on the rug.

"Da."

It was not clear enough.

Not yet.

But it was close.

So close that the whole room seemed to hold its breath.

Craig lowered the screwdriver.

Deran set the crisp packet down.

"No," Deran said again, but quieter this time.

You turned to him, eyes wide.

"Deran."

"No. Not yet."

Craig looked at him. "You heard that."

"I heard a sound."

"You heard a dad sound."

"A dad sound?" Deran repeated. "That's not a thing."

"It is now."

You were already reaching for your phone.

"No one move."

Deran looked offended. "I wasn't moving."

"Don't breathe emotionally either."

"I don't breathe emotionally."

"You absolutely do," Craig said.

Deran glared at him. "Install the gate."

"Record the baby," Craig shot back.

You ignored both of them and opened your camera.

The second the phone was pointed at her, Andie stopped making any noise at all.

Of course she did.

She picked up the soft block and put the corner in her mouth.

You lowered the phone slightly.

"Andie," you said gently.

She chewed harder.

"Baby girl."

She stared at you.

Andrew's recording continued in the background, steady and warm.

You pointed again to the photo.

"Where's Daddy?"

Andie drooled on the block.

Deran leaned back. "Strong performance."

You shot him a look.

Craig moved quietly around the side of the rug, crouching so he wasn't in the frame. "Maybe play the start again."

You glanced at him.

He looked deeply serious.

Evidence mode.

You loved him a little for it.

"Good idea."

Deran looked between you. "This is becoming a production."

"This is a milestone," you said.

"This is a baby chewing foam."

"She said da."

"She said a syllable."

Craig gave him a warning look. "Deran."

"What?"

"Don't be an ass."

Deran's jaw worked, but he shut up.

You stopped the recording player and restarted the bear book.

Static.

A small scrape.

Then Andrew's voice.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie went still.

Your phone was already recording.

Craig stopped moving.

Deran's expression shifted despite his best efforts.

Andie's whole face changed when she heard him.

It always did.

Not dramatically. Not like adults recognized people.

But her eyes brightened. Her mouth softened. Her fingers opened against the block.

"Hi, baby girl," Andrew's voice continued. "It's me."

Andie kicked both legs.

You held your breath.

"Where's Daddy?" you whispered.

Andie looked toward the player.

Then toward the photo.

Then she smiled.

A wide, gummy, delighted smile.

Craig's eyes went shiny immediately.

Deran's mouth parted slightly.

Andie slapped the rug.

"Dada."

Clear.

Small.

Imperfect.

Perfect.

For one impossible second, nobody moved.

Then Craig whispered, "Oh, shit."

You clapped one hand over your mouth.

Your phone kept recording.

Andie looked thrilled with herself.

"Dada," she said again, less clear this time, more babble than word, but it did not matter.

It had happened.

It had happened.

It had happened.

Your knees went weak even though you were already sitting.

Craig lowered himself onto the arm of the sofa like he needed support.

Deran stared at Andie.

He did not say it was gas.

He did not say it did not count.

He did not say anything for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, he said, "Okay."

You turned to him through tears.

His eyes were fixed on Andie.

"That one counted."

Your face crumpled.

Craig looked away, dragging a hand over his mouth.

You stopped the recording with shaking fingers, then immediately checked it.

The video began slightly sideways because of course it did. Andrew's voice came through clear enough. Your whisper. The pointed finger toward the photo. Andie's smile.

Then the word.

Dada.

Tiny.

Crackly.

World-ending.

You played it once.

Craig leaned closer.

Deran did not move from the sofa, but his eyes flicked to the screen.

You played it again.

Andrew's voice: Hi, baby girl. It's me.

Andie: Dada.

You started crying properly.

Not cute crying.

Not manageable crying.

The kind of crying that made your shoulders shake and your breath break apart.

Andie looked at you, confused by the sudden display, then laughed.

Actually laughed.

One of those little baby laughs that sounded like hiccups had learned joy.

Craig made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had not been so wet around the edges.

Deran looked at the ceiling.

"You're gonna kill him, kid," he muttered.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of Andrew's old T-shirt.

"She said Dada."

Craig nodded.

"She did."

"She said Dada."

"Yeah."

Deran stood abruptly.

You looked at him.

He pointed vaguely toward the kitchen. "I'm getting water."

"For who?"

"Everyone."

He left the room too fast.

Craig watched him go.

Then looked at you.

"He's crying in the kitchen."

"Should we let him?"

"Absolutely."

You laughed through tears and scooped Andie up from the rug.

She came willingly, still grinning, one hand grabbing your collar.

"Oh, baby," you whispered, pressing kisses all over her soft cheek. "You have no idea what you just did."

Andie slapped your face gently.

You laughed harder.

Craig crouched near the baby gate parts, still emotional, still holding the screwdriver.

"You gonna tell him tonight?"

"If he calls."

"He'll call."

"You don't know that."

Craig looked at Andie.

Then at the photo of Andrew.

"Yeah," he said softly. "He will."

The rest of the day moved strangely.

Everything ordinary looked different because Andie had said a word and the world had shifted around it.

The baby gate eventually got installed.

Crooked.

Secure, according to Craig.

Suspicious, according to Deran.

You fed Andie lunch while she banged one hand on the highchair tray and babbled nonsense as if she had not just emotionally destroyed an entire family.

Deran stayed longer than planned.

Craig did too.

Neither of them admitted it.

Craig said he wanted to make sure the gate held.

Deran said traffic was bad.

Traffic was not bad.

You let them lie.

By seven o'clock, Andie was in her pyjamas, hair damp from a bath, face soft and sleepy in the way that made her look younger again. The pyjamas had tiny yellow stars on them. Andrew had not seen them yet. You made a mental note to send a picture.

Your phone sat on the arm of the rocking chair.

The video was saved.

Backed up.

Sent to yourself twice.

Deran had also made you send it to him "in case you do something stupid with technology."

Craig had it too.

Everyone was guarding the word like evidence in a murder trial.

At 8:37, the phone rang.

Your entire body jolted.

Craig looked up from the sofa.

Deran, sitting on the floor with his back against the armchair because he claimed the sofa was "too soft," froze.

You grabbed the phone.

The automated voice began.

You pressed one.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

You tried to be normal.

You really did.

"Hi."

A pause.

"What happened?"

Your eyes filled immediately.

"Nothing bad."

"That means something happened."

Craig looked at Deran.

Deran looked at the floor.

You shifted Andie against your chest.

She was drowsy but awake, cheek pressed to your shoulder, one hand clutching your shirt.

"Andrew."

His voice changed. "What?"

"She said Dada."

Silence.

Complete.

Total.

So long that your heart started pounding.

Then he said, very quietly, "What?"

You closed your eyes.

"She said Dada."

Another silence.

And then, almost a whisper, "No."

"Yes."

"She's too little."

"She's eight months."

"That's still little."

"She said it."

"Baby."

"I have video."

The line went dead quiet again.

You could hear him breathing.

Craig looked away.

Deran stood abruptly and walked toward the kitchen.

You watched him go with a sad smile.

Andrew's voice came back rough.

"You have video?"

"Yes."

"You got it?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Because Craig went into evidence mode and Deran emotionally denied the whole thing until he couldn't."

A sound came through the line.

Barely a laugh.

Barely anything.

"Play it," Andrew said.

You swallowed.

"Okay."

You pulled the phone away and opened the video on your other device, holding it close to the receiver.

Craig came to stand quietly beside you.

Deran appeared again in the doorway, pretending he had not just left the room to have feelings.

You pressed play.

Static from the recording.

Andrew's own voice, tinny through the video, then through the prison phone.

Hi, Andie.

A rustle.

Your whisper.

Where's Daddy?

Then Andie's little voice.

Clear enough.

Tiny enough.

Perfect enough.

Dada.

Andrew made no sound.

You stopped the video.

The silence stretched.

Then he said, "Again."

You played it again.

Hi, baby girl. It's me.

Your whisper.

Where's Daddy?

Andie.

Dada.

Andrew's breathing broke.

Your eyes filled again.

"Again," he whispered.

You played it a third time.

Craig pressed the heel of his hand against his eye.

Deran turned away, jaw tight.

The video ended.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"Andrew?"

He did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice sounded wrecked beyond repair.

"She said it."

"She did."

"She said Dada."

"Yes."

"At the recording?"

"At your voice."

"At my photo?"

"I think so. I pointed and asked where Daddy was."

"You asked where Daddy was."

"Yes."

"And she said..."

"Dada."

His breath shook.

You held Andie closer.

"She knows you," you whispered.

Andrew said nothing.

"She knows you well enough to call for you."

That broke him.

Not loudly.

Andrew never broke loudly if he could help it.

But you heard it.

The small sound.

The way his breath stopped being steady.

The way he turned away from the phone and came back a second later, trying to sound like he had not just been split open by a baby's first word.

"She said it first?" he asked.

Your chest tightened.

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Not because you thought he would ruin it.

Because you knew him.

You knew love often came into him wrapped in guilt.

"Yes," you said softly.

He was quiet.

"Before Mama?"

"Yes."

Another silence.

Then, carefully, "Are you okay?"

You smiled through tears.

The question was so Andrew it hurt.

Even now.

Even after hearing his daughter say Dada.

He was worried about you.

"Because she said that first?" you asked.

He did not answer right away.

Then, "Yeah."

You looked down at Andie.

She was half asleep now, little lashes resting low, mouth moving softly against your shirt.

Your daughter.

Your everyday.

Your morning weight.

Your midnight cry.

Your warm, stubborn, impossible little person.

You got her first breath on your chest.

First feed.

First bath.

First night home.

First fever scare.

First time she rolled from her tummy to her back and scared herself so badly she cried.

First smile in real time.

Every tiny ordinary first that Andrew had to receive through stories and recordings and printed photos.

Your throat tightened.

"Andrew," you whispered.

He waited.

"I get to be here every day."

The line went quiet.

"She knows I'm here," you said. "She reaches for me. She cries for me. She falls asleep on me. She pulls my hair like she has a personal vendetta against my scalp."

Craig huffed softly.

You kept going.

"I get so much. I get more than you do right now. And I hate that. I hate it for you."

Your voice trembled.

"But this one..." You looked down at Andie again. "I wanted this one to be yours."

Andrew's breathing broke.

"I wanted it to be you," you said.

No one in the room moved.

Craig stared at the floor.

Deran had one hand over his mouth.

On the phone, Andrew said nothing for a long time.

Then, barely audible, "Baby."

"She said Dada because she knows your voice," you whispered. "Because you read to her. Because you call. Because you talk her down when she's mad. Because your photo is on the shelf and your books are in her room and your duck is watching over her like a weird little wooden bodyguard."

Craig's mouth twitched through the emotion.

"She said it because you're her dad," you said. "Not because you're missing. Because you're here in the ways you can be."

Andrew exhaled.

It sounded painful.

It sounded like relief.

It sounded like grief deciding, for once, not to win.

"She said Dada," he whispered again.

You smiled through tears.

"She said Dada."

Andie lifted her head slightly at the sound of your voice.

You shifted the phone.

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"Yes."

No hesitation.

You moved the phone near Andie's ear.

"She's listening."

Andrew's voice changed immediately.

Soft.

Low.

Hers.

"Hey, Andie."

Andie blinked.

Her eyes drifted toward the phone.

"I heard you."

She made a sleepy little sound.

Craig's face crumpled.

Deran looked at the ceiling.

Andrew continued, voice rough and tender.

"You said my name."

Andie slapped one hand gently against your collarbone.

"Yeah," Andrew whispered. "I know."

You pressed your lips together.

"I'm here," he said.

Andie babbled.

Not Dada.

Not anything clear.

Just a small string of sleepy sounds.

Andrew let out a broken laugh.

"You telling me about it?"

Andie made another noise.

"I know. Big day."

You were crying again.

You couldn't stop.

Not with his voice like that.

Not with Andie listening.

Not with Craig and Deran standing there pretending they were not being permanently altered by a baby and a prison phone.

Andrew's voice softened.

"I love you, baby girl."

Andie's eyes fluttered.

"Dada loves you."

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Craig turned away.

Deran left the room again.

This time, no one commented.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was breathing unevenly.

"She talked to you," you whispered.

"Yeah."

"She didn't say it again."

"She doesn't have to."

"No?"

"No." His voice was low. "I heard it."

Your smile trembled.

"You did."

"I heard it."

The timer beeped faintly in the background.

You closed your eyes.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

A gift.

A cruelty.

A lifetime if you used it right.

Craig quietly gathered the abandoned baby gate instructions and took them to the kitchen, giving you space without making a production of it.

Deran stayed in the hallway this time.

Close enough to hear.

Far enough to pretend.

You sat back down in the rocking chair, Andie curled against your chest, the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a few minutes, Andrew asked questions.

Not rushed.

Not panicked.

Careful.

Like he was trying to build the moment from every angle.

"What was she doing?"

"Sitting on the rug."

"What was she wearing?"

"The little yellow dungarees with the white shirt."

"The ones with the pocket?"

"Yes."

"She had toys?"

"Blocks."

"Which recording?"

"Bear."

He paused. "Bear?"

"Bear."

"Not duck?"

"Not duck."

"She said Dada to the bear?"

"She said Dada to your voice."

"That bear book is better than I thought."

You laughed softly.

"What did Craig do?"

"Nearly cried."

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell him I said that."

"I'm telling him."

"Andrew."

"He'll deny it."

"He absolutely will."

"And Deran?"

You smiled. "Left the room twice."

A rough little laugh came through the line.

"Yeah."

"He said it counted."

Andrew went quiet.

That seemed to mean something to him.

Of course it did.

Deran saying it counted meant it could not be dismissed as your hope or Andrew's imagination.

It counted.

Your daughter had said Dada.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

You hated it.

Andie was nearly asleep now, her whole body loose and warm against you.

"She's falling asleep," you said.

"Good."

"You did that too."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"She's just tired."

"Let me have this."

A pause.

Then softer, "Okay."

You smiled.

"You should ask me again," you said.

"Ask what?"

"The thing."

Andrew was quiet for a second.

Then, almost shyly, "She said it?"

Your face crumpled all over again.

"She said it."

"At me?"

"At you."

"At my voice?"

"At your voice."

"What did it sound like?"

You closed your eyes, holding the moment carefully.

"Small," you said. "Like she didn't know what she was doing, but some part of her did anyway."

Andrew said nothing.

"Happy," you added.

His breath caught.

"She sounded happy."

The silence that followed was soft.

Not empty.

Full.

Finally, Andrew whispered, "She sounded happy."

"Yeah."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You moved the phone back near Andie.

"Say goodnight."

Andrew's voice came through, barely steady.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She slept.

"I love you."

Her little fingers flexed against your shirt.

"I heard you today," he said.

Your eyes filled.

"I heard you."

Andie sighed in her sleep.

Andrew stopped for a second.

Then, softer, "Yeah. I know."

You brought the phone back.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled sadly.

"Good no or bad no?"

A pause.

Then, "Good no."

Your eyes closed.

"Good."

The final warning beeped.

Andrew's voice came quickly, like he was trying to fit the whole world into the last seconds.

"Play it again for her tomorrow."

"I will."

"And send it."

"I will."

"And tell her—"

The line clicked.

Gone.

You lowered the phone slowly.

The room was quiet except for Andie's soft breathing.

Craig came back in after a moment, eyes carefully dry.

Deran followed, pretending very hard that he had not been lurking.

You looked at both of them.

"He heard it."

Craig nodded.

"Good."

Deran cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he said. "Good."

Andie slept on, entirely unaware that she had just given her father something no prison wall could take from him.

That night, Andrew did not sleep for a long time.

He lay on his back, one arm folded under his head, staring at the ceiling.

The unit settled around him in pieces.

Footsteps.

A cough.

A low voice down the tier.

Metal shifting somewhere.

All of it familiar.

None of it enough to drown out the sound in his head.

Dada.

Small.

Crackly.

Barely formed.

His.

He replayed it without the video.

He did not need the video yet.

He had the sound now.

Your voice first.

Where's Daddy?

Then Andie.

Dada.

Andrew pressed one hand over his chest.

Not because something hurt.

Because something did not.

For once, the ache in him was not only grief.

It was wonder.

His daughter knew him well enough to call for him.

Maybe she did not understand the word yet.

Maybe it was babble.

Maybe tomorrow she would say it to a lamp or the baby gate or Deran's shoe.

It did not matter.

You had asked where Daddy was.

Andie had answered.

Andrew turned his head toward the wall of photos.

In the dark, he could not see them clearly.

But he knew each one.

Scan.

Gender note.

Nursery photo.

Contact visit.

Smile.

The timeline of his daughter finding her way to him.

Now there would be another piece.

A video.

A sound.

A word.

He closed his eyes.

Across the city, you laid Andie carefully in her cot after she finally surrendered to sleep. The nursery was dim. The wooden duck watched from the high shelf. The approved player sat beside the stack of books, waiting for tomorrow.

You looked down at your daughter.

Her mouth was relaxed now, no words, no babbling, no little sounds except breath.

"You made his whole life with one word today," you whispered.

Andie slept on.

You smiled, touched two fingers to your lips, then gently to her forehead.

"Dada," you whispered back to her.

As if returning the word to the room.

As if letting it settle where it belonged.

Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody fell asleep with his daughter's voice in his head, saying the only word that could have found him through every wall.

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The video was mostly useless.

That was the first thing you noticed when you watched it back properly.

Not emotionally useless.

Emotionally, it was devastating.

Technically, it was a crime.

The first three seconds were your knee.

Then the nursery rug.

Then one blurry close-up of Andie's foot kicking with great intensity while Andrew's recorded voice said, faintly in the background, "Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Then your own voice, whispered and frantic.

"Come on, baby. Do it again."

The camera lifted too fast.

Blurred.

Focused.

Lost focus.

Found Andie's face.

Your daughter lay on the soft blanket in the middle of the nursery floor, dark hair sticking up slightly, tiny fists pulled close to her chest, eyes wide and unfocused in the way that made her look like she was receiving visions from another realm.

Andrew's duck recording played from the little device beside her.

His voice was low.

Careful.

Nervous, still, even though he had denied that every time you mentioned it.

He turned a page.

The audio crackled faintly.

Andie blinked.

You held your breath even though you already knew what happened next.

Andrew's voice softened around a sentence about the duck finding its way home.

Andie's mouth moved.

Just a little.

A tiny pull at one corner.

Then the other.

A crooked, fleeting, impossibly small smile.

There.

Gone.

The whole thing lasted maybe two seconds.

Maybe less.

But it was real.

You paused the video so quickly your finger slipped and skipped forward.

"No, no, no," you muttered, dragging it back. "Come on."

You found the moment again.

Paused.

There.

Andie's face, caught halfway through the smile, eyes bright, mouth curved, one fist open like even her hand had been surprised by joy.

You stared at the screen.

Your throat closed.

It was not the first time you had cried over the video.

It was, embarrassingly, not even the fifth.

Motherhood had turned you into a woman who could be defeated by a tiny mouth.

You sniffed hard and wiped your cheek with the sleeve of Andrew's flannel.

Andie was asleep against your chest in the rocking chair, warm and soft and completely unaware that her face was currently doing structural damage to your heart.

"You know," you whispered down at her, "your dad is going to be unbearable about this."

She sighed in her sleep.

Tiny.

Content.

Her cheek pressed deeper into your shirt.

You looked back at the frozen frame.

Andie smiling.

At Andrew's voice.

Not yours.

Not Deran's ridiculous argument about gas.

Andrew's.

You had told him about it on the phone already, but telling was not enough. You knew that because you had heard the silence on the other end of the line. The way he had tried to imagine it. The way he had asked what she looked like, voice careful and rough, as if too much wanting might make the answer disappear.

He needed to see it.

You managed to transfer the still image to be printed the next morning.

It took far longer than it should have because technology seemed personally committed to ruining mothers.

Andie cried halfway through.

Then needed feeding.

Then spat up on your clean shirt.

Then smiled at absolutely nothing when your phone was across the room, because apparently she had developed comedic timing.

By the time Deran came by with groceries, you were sitting at the kitchen table with Andie in the crook of one arm, the laptop open in front of you, and a deeply suspicious expression on your face.

Deran stopped in the doorway.

"No."

You looked up. "No what?"

"Whatever this is."

"You don't even know what this is."

"You look like you're about to ask me to do something."

"I am."

"No."

"Deran."

"No."

"I need you to help me print a photo."

He stared at you.

Then at Andie.

Then back at you.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you look like you're committing fraud?"

"Because the printer app is asking me to create an account and I don't trust it."

Deran set the grocery bags down with a sigh. "Give me the laptop."

You smiled sweetly.

"You're very kind."

"Don't."

"And helpful."

"I said don't."

"And emotionally available in a crisis."

"I'm leaving."

"You are not. You love Andie."

Deran looked down at the baby.

Andie was asleep, mouth slightly open, one hand curled against your shirt.

His face did the thing.

The soft thing.

Then he looked away immediately.

"She's fine."

"That was not a denial."

He took the laptop. "Show me the picture."

You clicked the file.

The smile filled the screen.

Deran went quiet.

You watched his face.

He had seen the smile happen in person. He had argued about it. Denied it. Then folded completely when Andie did it again.

But this was different.

Frozen like this, there was no pretending it had been gas or timing or wishful thinking.

It was joy.

Tiny, blurry, crooked joy.

Deran's jaw moved slightly.

"Yeah," he said.

Your smile softened. "Yeah?"

"Print that one."

"I know."

"No, I mean..." He cleared his throat. "That exact one."

You looked at the screen again.

Andie smiling at Andrew's voice.

"That's the one," he said.

Your eyes burned.

"Yeah," you whispered. "That's the one."

Deran did not look at you.

That was kind of him.

The first copy went on the fridge.

You tucked it under the smiling sun magnet beside the photo of you pregnant in the nursery and the photo from the contact visit — Andrew holding Andie, you leaning into his shoulder, his eyes fixed on your daughter like he had forgotten the rest of the world existed.

The second copy you held for a long time.

Then you turned it over.

You had planned to write something beautiful.

Something thoughtful.

Something that would make sense of the ache and softness of it.

Instead, you wrote:

Father science confirmed.

You stared at it.

Then laughed so hard Andie startled in the sling against your chest.

"Sorry," you whispered, kissing her hair. "Your parents are ridiculous."

Underneath, you added:

She smiled at your voice.

That was better.

Simple.

True.

Enough.

You tucked the photo into an envelope with a short letter.

It lasted maybe two seconds.

Deran said it was gas.

He was wrong.

She smiled at your voice, Andrew.

I wish you could have seen it when it happened, but this is the closest I could get.

I watched it too many times and cried like an idiot.

You would have pretended not to cry and failed.

I love you.

She loves you too.

You sealed the envelope before you could overthink the last line.

Then you pressed a kiss to the corner.

Not because Andrew would know.

Because you would.

Andrew received the envelope four days later.

He knew it was yours before he saw the handwriting.

He always did.

There were very few good things that came through the mail in prison. Most of it carried bad news, rules, delays, official language, or nothing worth holding onto.

Your letters were different.

Your letters had weight before he opened them.

He took the envelope back to his bunk like he always did now.

Some men opened mail in the common area. Standing, impatient, tearing through paper with too much force.

Andrew never did.

He opened yours carefully.

Privately.

Some things deserved to be protected before they were even known.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, one shoulder angled slightly toward the wall, and slid his finger under the flap.

A letter.

And a photo.

The photo fell into his palm face down.

He saw your writing first.

Father science confirmed.

Andrew stopped.

For a second, he just stared at the words.

Then a sound left him.

Small.

Rough.

Almost nothing.

A laugh, maybe.

He pressed his thumb near the edge of the photo, not over the ink.

Then he read the line below.

She smiled at your voice.

Everything in him went still.

He turned the photo over.

Andie.

His daughter.

Smiling.

Andrew forgot how to breathe.

Not because it was big.

It was not.

The smile was tiny. Crooked. Barely there. Her eyes were still unfocused. Her fist was open near her chin. The picture was a little blurry, like whoever had taken it had been shaking or rushing or both.

But it was real.

She was smiling.

His daughter was smiling.

Andrew had imagined it badly.

He realized that immediately.

He had pictured something bigger. Maybe because grown people smiled with their whole mouths, their eyes, their whole faces. He had imagined a baby version of that.

But Andie's smile was smaller.

Softer.

More fragile.

Just a little curve, like happiness had touched her face and she had not known yet how to hold all of it.

It wrecked him worse.

Andrew sat there with the photo in both hands and looked until his eyes burned.

Her hair was darker than he remembered.

Her cheeks fuller.

She had changed again.

Babies did that, apparently. Changed without permission. Grew in tiny increments and then all at once, and he was always catching up through photos and phone calls and your careful descriptions.

But the frown was still there.

His frown.

Except now interrupted by a smile.

He brushed his thumb along the border of the photo, stopping before he touched her face.

He would not smudge it.

He would not wear it down.

His throat worked.

"She smiled," he whispered.

No one answered.

That was fine.

He said it again anyway.

"She smiled."

At his voice.

The thought landed differently every time.

Not just that she settled for him. Not just that his voice could quiet her when she was screaming. Not just that she knew the sound of him.

She had been happy.

Because of him.

Andrew covered his mouth with one hand and bent forward over the photo.

The tears came quietly.

No sound.

No dramatic collapse.

Just heat in his eyes and a sharp ache behind his ribs and the impossible weight of joy in a place that had never been built to hold it.

He read your letter next.

Slowly.

Then again.

He stopped at the line about Deran.

Deran said it was gas.

Andrew huffed through tears.

Of course he had.

Then:

He was wrong.

Andrew looked back at the photo.

"Yes," he whispered. "He was."

He folded the letter and tucked it beneath the blanket on his bunk, then held the photo again.

For a long time, he did nothing else.

Later, the programme officer came by during count.

Andrew stood with the others, photo tucked safely under his pillow.

She glanced at him once.

"You get the mail?" she asked quietly.

He nodded.

"Good?"

Andrew hesitated.

Good was too small.

Good was dry chicken not being as bad as usual. Good was a call going through. Good was being allowed into the recording room again.

This was not good.

This was his daughter smiling at his voice from across the city.

He nodded once anyway.

"Yeah."

The officer looked like she understood enough not to ask.

"Recording list is posted," she said. "You requested another book?"

Andrew thought about the book list.

The bear one.

The rabbit one he thought was stupid.

The bedtime one with the moon.

He had planned to pick one.

One was reasonable.

One was what the slot allowed if other men needed time too.

But Andie had smiled at his voice.

His daughter had smiled.

"How many can I request?" he asked.

The officer's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"One at a time, usually."

"Can I request them in order?"

"You can make a list."

Andrew looked at the wall.

At the place behind the blanket where the photo waited.

"Bear," he said. "Then moon."

The officer wrote it down.

After a pause, he added, "And the rabbit."

She glanced up. "Thought you didn't like the rabbit."

Andrew's jaw tightened.

"I don't."

"Then why request it?"

He looked down.

Because Andie might.

Because if his voice made her smile, he would read every stupid rabbit book in the building.

Because maybe one day you would play it in the green room while she lay on the blanket with her fist near her face, and maybe she would know him a little more.

Because he was her father and this was what he could do.

He shrugged once.

"It's for her."

The officer's expression softened.

Just slightly.

She wrote it down.

The phone rang at 8:52 that night.

You were in the nursery, because of course you were.

Andie was lying on her blanket again, kicking one leg with fierce concentration. The duck recording had just ended. The smile photo was propped on the dresser because you had not yet decided whether to frame it or carry it around like a lunatic.

Deran was downstairs, allegedly watching television, though you suspected he had actually fallen asleep on the sofa again.

You grabbed the phone.

The automated voice started.

You pressed one.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

You smiled immediately.

"Hey."

A pause.

Then he said, "You didn't tell me she had your smile."

Your throat tightened.

There it was.

He got it.

You leaned back against the rocking chair and looked down at Andie.

"She does?"

"Yeah."

"I thought it was yours."

"No."

"You haven't smiled at yourself much, then."

He huffed softly.

"She smiled at your voice," you said. "That makes it yours too."

Andrew went quiet.

You could hear him breathing.

Not even.

Not steady.

"Baby," you whispered.

"I got the photo."

"I know."

"I looked at it."

"I assumed."

"A lot."

You smiled. "Also assumed."

"She's bigger."

"She is."

"Her cheeks."

You looked down at Andie's cheeks.

They had filled out slightly, soft and round and absolutely ridiculous.

"Very kissable," you said.

Andrew made a small sound.

"Sorry."

"No."

"You okay?"

"No."

"Good no or bad no?"

A beat.

Then, softly, "Good no."

Your face crumpled.

"Oh."

"She looks happy."

"She was."

"At the recording?"

"Yes."

"At the duck one?"

"Yes."

His breath moved through the line, shaken.

"She smiled at the duck."

"At you."

"At a duck book."

"At you reading a duck book."

"That's different."

"It is."

Andie kicked both legs and let out a tiny squeak.

Andrew went silent instantly.

"What was that?"

"She's here."

"She awake?"

"Very."

"She okay?"

"She is currently fighting the air."

"She winning?"

"Hard to tell."

Andrew huffed.

You smiled and moved the phone closer to Andie.

"Say hi."

Andrew's voice changed at once.

Softened.

Lowered.

The Andie voice.

"Hey, Andie."

Your daughter blinked.

Her legs stilled.

You bit your lip.

Andrew kept talking.

"I got your picture."

Andie waved one hand.

"You smiled."

Her eyes shifted vaguely toward the sound.

"You look like your mom when you do it."

Your eyes filled.

Andie's mouth moved.

Not quite a smile.

Almost.

You held your breath.

Andrew said, "Yeah. I know. She says it's mine too, but she lies about stuff like that."

You laughed.

Andie's mouth curved.

Tiny.

There.

Again.

You gasped.

Andrew stopped. "What?"

"She did it."

"What?"

"She smiled."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"At me?"

"Yes."

The line went completely silent.

You grabbed your phone tighter.

"Andrew?"

"She smiled again?"

"Yes."

You laughed through sudden tears. "You made her smile again."

Andrew made a sound that broke halfway through.

You closed your eyes.

"I wish you could see."

"Tell me."

"She's on the blanket," you said quickly, trying to hold every detail while it was still happening. "She's wearing the little cream sleepsuit with the yellow stars. Her hair is doing that mad thing at the back where it sticks up. She had one fist by her mouth, and then you said she looked like me, and she smiled."

He did not speak.

"It was bigger this time," you whispered.

His breathing broke.

"Bigger?"

"A little. Still tiny. But bigger."

Andie kicked once, then started hiccupping.

"And now she has hiccups."

Andrew let out a wet laugh.

Your chest ached.

"She smiled again," he said.

"She did."

"Father science confirmed."

You laughed, crying openly now.

"Father science confirmed."

You brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, "I asked for more books."

Your smile softened.

"Yeah?"

"Bear one."

"Good."

"Moon one."

"Very good."

He hesitated.

"And the rabbit."

You grinned. "The stupid rabbit?"

"It's for her."

Your heart went uselessly soft.

"She'll love the stupid rabbit."

"She better."

"She will."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll play it until she does."

"That feels wrong."

"It's parenting."

A soft laugh came through the line.

You leaned your head back against the rocking chair.

"I'm proud of you," you said.

He went quiet.

"Don't."

"I am."

"For reading?"

"For letting yourself be her dad in every way you can."

The line went still.

You heard him inhale.

"I don't know how to do enough," he said.

Your smile faded into something tender.

"This is enough for today."

"It doesn't feel like enough."

"I know."

"It feels small."

"It is small," you said softly. "But babies are small. Small things count."

He did not answer.

You looked at Andie.

She had started chewing on her fist, staring up at nothing with great concentration.

"She doesn't know what you can't do," you said.

Andrew's breath caught.

"She knows what you do. She hears you. She settles for you. She smiles at you. That is what she knows."

Silence.

Then, rough and low, "Okay."

You knew that okay.

It meant he was trying.

You let him have it.

The call timer beeped faintly.

You sighed.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Andie hiccupped again.

Andrew's voice softened. "She still doing it?"

"Hiccupping? Yes."

"Does she hate it?"

"She looks offended."

"She always does."

"You gave her that face."

"Apparently I gave her a smile too."

Your heart squeezed.

"Yes," you whispered. "You did."

For the next few minutes, you told him about the photo.

How long it took to get the frame right.

How Deran helped with the printer app and acted like the whole thing was beneath him while hovering over the screen.

How you put one copy on the fridge.

How the other copy, his copy, had been kissed at the corner before you mailed it.

Andrew went very quiet at that.

"You kissed it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I can't kiss you."

The line went silent.

Your eyes burned.

"So I kissed the thing I was sending to you."

Andrew's voice came back rough.

"I kissed it too."

Your breath stopped.

"The photo?"

"Yeah."

You closed your eyes.

"Oh."

"Corner," he said, like it mattered that you knew. "Not her face. Didn't want to mess it up."

A tear slid down your cheek.

"Same corner?"

"I don't know."

"I'm choosing to believe yes."

"Okay."

You smiled.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

Andie started fussing slightly, tired now from the enormous work of smiling twice and hiccupping with her whole body.

You picked her up and tucked her against your chest.

"She's getting sleepy."

"Need to go?"

"Not yet."

"If she needs—"

"Andrew."

"What?"

"We can have five more minutes."

He went quiet.

Then, softer, "Okay."

You shifted Andie against your shoulder and stood carefully, walking slowly around the nursery because she liked movement when she was tired.

The chair creaked as you moved past it.

The wooden duck sat on the shelf.

The smile photo watched from the dresser.

Andrew's voice stayed in your ear.

For five more minutes, you talked quietly.

About nothing.

About everything.

The bear book.

Deran's printer skills.

Andie's star sleepsuit.

Bad prison chicken.

Whether the rabbit book was genuinely stupid or just misunderstood.

When the final minute warning came, Andie was asleep against your shoulder.

"Say goodnight," you whispered, holding the phone near her.

Andrew's voice came soft.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She slept.

"I saw your smile."

Your face crumpled.

"I love it."

Andie sighed.

"I love you," he whispered.

You brought the phone back.

"I love you too."

"And you."

"I know."

"No, you don't."

You blinked.

Andrew's voice went quieter.

"I love you for sending it. For making sure I see things."

Your throat closed.

"I don't want you to miss everything."

"I know."

"You won't."

"I know," he said.

And this time, maybe he did.

The line clicked off.

You stood in the green room with Andie asleep against your shoulder, Andrew's voice still warm in your ear.

The smile photo sat on the dresser.

Small.

Blurry.

Perfect.

That night, Andrew put the photo on the wall beside the contact visit picture.

He placed it carefully.

Not too close to the edge where it might curl.

Not where the light would fade it.

Just beneath the note that said It's a girl.

Now the wall had become a timeline.

Scan photos.

The gender note.

You in the green room, pregnant and wearing his shirt.

The contact visit, his arms around Andie and your head against his shoulder.

And now his daughter smiling.

He stood in front of it for a long time after lights-out, barely visible in the dim.

The first time Andrew saw his daughter smile, she was already asleep across the city.

He had not been there when it happened.

But the photo was there now.

Awake beside him.

Proof that his voice reached her.

Proof that she knew him.

Proof that joy could cross concrete if it had to.

Andrew touched two fingers to his mouth.

Then to the corner of the photo.

The same corner, he decided.

Because he wanted it to be.

Then he lay down with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

In the dark, he tried again to imagine the shape of Andie's smile.

This time, he got closer.

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The first time Andie smiled, you were not ready.

This felt rude.

You had spent weeks watching her face like it was going to reveal state secrets. You had studied every twitch of her mouth, every sleepy grimace, every milk-drunk expression, every scrunched little frown that looked so much like Andrew it made your chest ache.

You had been waiting.

Not patiently.

Never patiently.

But waiting.

Everyone said six weeks was around when babies started smiling on purpose. Real smiles. Social smiles. The kind that meant something other than gas or digestion or mysterious newborn internal politics.

Andie was seven weeks old.

Seven weeks and two days, if you were being exact, which you were, because motherhood had apparently turned you into the sort of person who counted time by days and feeds and nappy changes and how long she slept before making the tiny offended noise that meant she had decided the world was disappointing again.

You had been prepared.

Sort of.

You had your phone nearby almost all the time now because she had started doing this little thing with her mouth that looked almost like a smile if you were very hopeful and willing to ignore medical probability.

You had tried everything.

Silly faces.

Terrible singing.

Bouncing her gently on your knees.

Kissing her cheeks.

Saying, "Who is the prettiest baby in the entire world?" in a voice that would have made Andrew stare at you with deep concern.

Nothing.

Andie would blink at you.

Frown.

Occasionally spit up.

Once, she had sneezed directly after you said, "Smile for Mummy," which felt personal.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon when your hair was half falling out of a claw clip and you had one sock on because you had lost the other somewhere between the nursery and the kitchen, you played Andrew's duck recording because Andie was getting fussy.

Not screaming.

Not fully.

Just building toward it.

The dangerous pre-cry stage.

The red eyebrows.

The trembling bottom lip.

The increasingly dramatic breathing.

You were sitting cross-legged on the nursery rug with your back against the rocking chair, Andie lying on a blanket in front of you. Her little legs kicked the air with furious purpose. One hand waved near her face like she was conducting an orchestra no one else could hear.

"Don't start," you warned gently.

Andie's mouth opened.

"Please don't start."

She made a tiny angry sound.

You reached for the little approved player on the floor beside you.

"Okay," you sighed. "Fine. Calling in reinforcements."

You pressed play.

There was a second of static.

Then Andrew's voice filled the room.

"Hi, Andie."

Your daughter went still.

Not asleep.

Not magically soothed all at once.

Just still.

Her eyes widened slightly, dark and unfocused, turning toward the sound like her whole tiny body recognized the shape of him before her brain knew what recognition was.

You froze too.

You always did.

Even now, after playing the recording every day, sometimes more than once, the sound of him in the nursery still caught you right under the ribs.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie blinked.

Her little hand opened.

You smiled.

"There he is," you whispered.

Andrew's recorded voice continued, rough and careful and more nervous than he would ever admit.

"This is a duck book."

You laughed softly.

Every time.

Every single time.

You knew the recording by heart now. You knew where his voice steadied. Where he paused too long before turning the page. Where he did the barely-there duck voice and pretended, later on the phone, that it did not count as a duck voice.

You watched Andie while he read.

She kicked once.

Then again.

Her face, which had been working its way toward tragedy only seconds earlier, relaxed.

Her eyes tracked vaguely toward the player.

Andrew read about a duck getting lost, then found, then tucked into bed beneath the moon. It was not a complicated book. It was, in fact, a very silly book. The duck had no survival skills and far too much confidence.

Andrew had somehow made it sound important.

Halfway through the second page, Andie's mouth moved.

You leaned forward.

"No."

Her lips twitched.

Just a tiny curve.

Barely anything.

You stopped breathing.

"No, no, no. Do that again."

Andie blinked at the ceiling.

Andrew's voice said, "The duck was not scared."

Andie's mouth curved again.

Small.

Soft.

There and gone so quickly you almost doubted it.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

"Oh my God."

Andie waved one fist.

You grabbed your phone so fast you nearly dropped it on your own foot.

"No, wait. Wait, do it again. Please do it again."

Andie immediately looked bored.

"No. Don't do that. Don't look like your father when someone asks him to talk about feelings."

She sneezed.

You stared at her.

"That is not a smile."

She made a tiny noise.

Andrew's recording kept going.

You hit record on your phone anyway, because if motherhood had taught you anything, it was that babies liked to perform miracles the second no one was documenting them.

"Okay," you whispered, aiming the camera at her. "Go on. Smile for Dad's voice."

Andie hiccupped.

You narrowed your eyes.

"You are being difficult."

The recording ended with Andrew's soft, "Goodnight, Andie. I'm here."

Andie did not smile again.

You replayed it.

No smile.

You replayed the first page.

No smile.

You tried saying "Hi, baby girl" in Andrew's voice.

This was a mistake.

Andie looked deeply unimpressed.

You gasped. "Excuse me. That was a very good impression."

She started crying.

You sighed and picked her up.

"Alright. That was fair. I'm sorry. I'll never impersonate your father again."

Deran arrived twenty minutes later with groceries, nappies, and the expression of a man who had somehow been tricked into becoming useful.

He let himself in like he lived there.

Which, at this point, he basically did three days a week.

"You alive?" he called.

"In the nursery."

He appeared in the doorway carrying two shopping bags and a packet of nappies under one arm.

Andie was tucked against your chest, mostly calm now, one cheek pressed to your shirt, mouth making tiny sleepy motions.

Deran looked at her first.

Always.

Then at you.

"You look weird."

"Thank you."

"No, like..." He frowned. "Excited weird."

You sat up straighter in the rocking chair.

"I think she smiled."

Deran's face went blank.

"Okay."

"At Andrew's recording."

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Okay."

"Do not say okay like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're humouring me."

"I am humouring you."

"Deran."

He stepped fully into the room and set the bags near the dresser. "Babies do weird face stuff."

"It was not weird face stuff."

"It was probably gas."

Your mouth fell open.

"You are banned from the nursery."

"I brought nappies."

"You may leave them at the door and go."

"She's seven weeks old."

"Exactly."

"Babies smile around then."

"See? You know that."

"I know it was a smile."

"You want it to be a smile."

You pointed at him. "That is a dangerous sentence to say to a sleep-deprived mother."

Deran glanced at Andie. "She asleep?"

"Almost."

"Then why are we arguing?"

"Because you accused my child's first smile of being gas."

"I said probably."

"You're making it worse."

Andie stirred against your chest, grumbling softly.

Both of you froze.

Deran lowered his voice. "Sorry."

You looked at him.

He looked annoyed at himself for apologizing to a seven-week-old baby who could not understand him.

You smiled.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You had a face."

"I have many faces."

"Unfortunately."

You laid Andie carefully back on the blanket on the floor once she seemed calm enough, because now that Deran was there, you needed a witness.

A hostile witness, apparently, but a witness.

You grabbed the player again.

"Watch her."

Deran leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "This feels like a trap."

"It is not a trap."

"You're going to say I'm heartless if I don't see a smile."

"You are heartless if you don't see a smile."

"Trap."

You ignored him and pressed play.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie's head moved toward the sound.

Deran's posture shifted.

Tiny.

But you saw it.

You looked up at him with triumph.

He pointed at you. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Andrew's voice continued.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie kicked.

Her eyes opened wider.

Her mouth made the smallest little shape.

You stopped breathing.

"Watch," you whispered.

Deran looked down at her.

The room went quiet except for Andrew's recorded voice reading about the deeply incompetent duck.

Andie stared toward the player.

Her hands opened and closed.

Andrew did the duck voice.

Barely.

Just enough.

Andie's mouth curved.

Tiny.

Soft.

Completely real.

You gasped.

Deran went still.

"There," you whispered. "There."

Andie's little face relaxed into it for maybe two seconds.

Two seconds of something bright and new and unmistakable.

A smile.

Not gas.

Not digestion.

Not a random twitch.

A smile.

At Andrew's voice.

Your hands flew to your mouth.

"Oh my God."

Deran did not say anything.

That was how you knew he had seen it.

You looked at him, eyes full.

"That was a smile."

His jaw worked.

He looked at the player.

Then at Andie.

Then back at the player, as if Andrew might somehow be hiding inside the little approved device and would hear him admit defeat.

"Yeah," Deran said.

Your face crumpled.

"Yeah?"

He cleared his throat, looking away. "Yeah. Probably."

"Deran."

"It was a smile."

You burst into tears.

Andie, offended by the sudden emotion, kicked one leg.

You laughed and cried at once.

"She smiled at him."

Deran's eyes went shiny in a way he absolutely would not appreciate you mentioning.

"Yeah."

"She smiled at his voice."

"Yeah."

You grabbed your phone.

"Oh my God, I didn't get it."

Deran looked relieved to have a practical problem.

"Do it again."

"Babies aren't vending machines."

"Play the duck again."

"She might not do it again."

"Try."

So you did.

You replayed the first part of the recording.

Nothing.

You replayed it again.

Andie yawned.

Deran said, "Maybe the smile took it out of her."

You glared at him.

"What? It was probably hard work."

You tried again fifteen minutes later after a feed.

No smile.

You tried after nappy change.

No smile.

You tried while she lay on your chest.

No smile.

Andie had apparently decided to reveal joy once, emotionally destroy the room, and then retire from public life.

Deran stayed.

He pretended he was only there because Craig had asked him to check the smoke alarm batteries, which was both random and unbelievable. In reality, he sat on the nursery floor with his back against the wall, scrolling through his phone and glancing up every time the recording started over.

On the fifth attempt, Andie smiled again.

You almost dropped your phone in your rush to record it.

"Got it?" Deran asked.

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I panicked."

"You had one job."

"You hold her entire emotional development in your hands and see how steady you are."

You opened the video.

It started with a blurry shot of your knee.

Then a close-up of Andie's foot.

Then your whispering voice saying, "Come on, baby, do it again."

Deran snorted.

"Shut up."

Then the camera found her face.

Andrew's voice played in the background.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie blinked.

Kicked.

Then smiled.

Small.

A little crooked.

Over in a second.

Perfect.

You pressed the phone to your chest and started crying again.

Deran sighed.

But not like he was annoyed.

More like he had accepted this was what the day was now.

"That's it?" he asked.

You nodded, laughing through tears. "That's it."

He leaned over to look at the screen again.

"She did smile."

"She did."

"At Pope's voice."

"At her dad's voice."

Deran looked away.

His mouth tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said. "At her dad's voice."

Andrew called at 8:43 that night.

You had been waiting since 8:00.

Andie had fallen asleep against your chest after an hour of fussy, unsettled little noises that never quite became crying but still kept you trapped in that strange newborn state of alert exhaustion.

The player was on the side table.

Your phone was tucked into the chair cushion beside your thigh.

The second it rang, your hand shot out.

Andie startled.

You froze.

She settled.

You accepted the call before the automated voice had finished its usual insult to romance and family life.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

"She smiled at you."

Silence.

You closed your eyes.

That was not how you had planned to say it.

You had meant to ease into it. Ask how he was. Tell him Andie was asleep. Mention the recording. Build toward it gently because Andrew handled joy like something suspicious left on his doorstep.

Instead, you had thrown it directly at his head.

The line stayed quiet.

You opened your eyes.

"Andrew?"

"What?"

His voice was strange.

Low.

Careful.

Like he had heard you but did not trust the sentence.

"She smiled," you said, softer. "At your recording."

Another silence.

Then, "No."

"Yes."

"She's too little."

"She is seven weeks."

"It might've been gas."

You sat up straighter. "Do not Deran me."

"What?"

"Deran said that."

"Deran saw?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"He said it was gas?"

"At first."

"And?"

"And then she did it again."

Andrew stopped breathing.

You smiled through tears.

"She smiled, Andrew. It was tiny and quick and she immediately went back to looking like she was judging the furniture, but she smiled."

"At the recording?"

"At your voice."

He did not answer.

You held Andie closer.

"She was fussy," you said. "So I played the duck book. And you said, 'Hi, baby girl. It's me.' And she just... stopped. She looked toward the player and her little mouth did this tiny—"

Your own mouth trembled.

You laughed, crying already.

"I can't even explain it. It was so small."

Andrew was silent.

"Baby?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled through tears.

"Good no or bad no?"

"I don't know."

"Still?"

"Yeah."

You leaned back in the chair, rocking slowly.

"She smiled at your voice."

This time you said it carefully.

Like a promise.

Like proof.

Andrew inhaled shakily.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Not because you wanted her to?"

"I mean, I did want her to."

"Baby."

"But Deran saw it."

That seemed to land.

Andrew knew Deran. Deran did not hand out sentiment unless cornered by objective evidence or a newborn.

"He said it was a smile?" Andrew asked.

"Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"After being banned from the nursery."

A small breath came through the line.

Almost a laugh.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes."

His silence changed.

"Video?"

"Yes."

"You got a video?"

"I panicked, so the first second is my knee and then her foot."

"Okay."

"But then you can see it. Your voice is playing, and she smiles."

Andrew did not speak for so long that you checked the phone screen to make sure the call had not dropped.

It hadn't.

"Andrew?"

"I want to see it," he said.

His voice was rough.

"You will."

"When?"

"I'll bring it next visit if they let me show you. If not, I'll print a still from it. Or I'll describe it frame by frame until the guard begs for mercy."

Another small breath of laughter.

"You would."

"I absolutely would."

Andie made a tiny sound against your chest.

Andrew went quiet instantly.

"What was that?"

"She's asleep. Just making noises."

"She okay?"

"She's perfect."

"She smiled."

"She smiled."

"At me."

"At you."

His breath caught.

"At my voice," he corrected softly.

You looked down at Andie.

Her cheek was pressed against your chest, mouth slightly open, one tiny fist curled in the collar of your shirt.

"At her dad's voice," you said.

Andrew went silent again.

This time, you let him.

Some silences needed space.

Finally, he said, "She knows me."

Your throat tightened.

"Yes."

"I know we said that before."

"I know."

"But she..."

"She smiled."

"Yeah."

You nodded even though he could not see.

"She knows you in the ways she can right now."

The line crackled.

"Your voice," you said. "Your rhythm. The way you say her name. The way you do that terrible duck voice."

"It's not terrible."

"It is beloved and terrible."

"It's one voice."

"It is a duck voice."

"It's barely a voice."

"It made your daughter smile."

That shut him up.

You smiled softly.

"Yeah," he said, very quiet. "Okay."

Andie shifted, making another sleepy sound.

You moved the phone closer to her without thinking.

"Want to talk to her?"

"She's sleeping."

"She can still hear you."

"She needs sleep."

"She can sleep and be loved at the same time."

Andrew went quiet.

Then, softer, "Put me on."

You held the phone near Andie, careful and close.

"She's listening."

Andrew's voice lowered into that tender place that belonged only to her.

"Hey, Andie."

She did not wake.

Her tiny fingers flexed against your shirt.

"I heard you smiled today."

Your eyes filled all over again.

"Your mom says it was at me."

You pressed your lips together.

"She's usually right."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"And Deran saw it, so I guess it counts."

You laughed silently.

Andrew paused.

Then, voice rougher, "I wish I saw it."

Your smile faded.

"I know."

"I will."

"You will."

"I just..." He stopped.

You waited.

He breathed out.

"I'm glad it happened."

Your heart softened.

There he was.

Not spiraling.

Not making the good thing smaller because it hurt.

Letting it be good.

"She'll do it again," you whispered.

"She doesn't have to."

"No?"

"No. Once is good."

You closed your eyes.

"Once is everything," he said.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"She'll smile for you again."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

A pause.

Then Andrew said, "Father science says she will."

You burst into a wet laugh.

Andie stirred.

You froze.

Andrew huffed softly. "You woke her."

"You made me laugh."

"She needs sleep."

"You are the problem."

"I am never the problem."

"Lies."

Andie settled again with a sleepy sigh.

Both of you went quiet.

"You sound tired," Andrew said.

"I am tired."

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"Pain meds?"

"I don't really need them much now."

"That's not what I asked."

You smiled despite yourself. "Yes, if I need them."

"Water?"

"Yes."

"Sleep?"

"I have a seven-week-old."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

His voice softened.

"You okay?"

The question was gentler now.

Not routine.

Not interrogation.

A real ask.

You looked down at Andie.

At her tiny face relaxed in sleep.

At the little mouth that had smiled at her father's voice.

"I'm okay," you said.

And you mostly were.

Tired. Lonely in the strangest ways. Happy in ways that made the loneliness sharper and softer at the same time.

But okay.

"She makes it better," you said.

Andrew was quiet.

Then, "Yeah."

"And harder."

"Yeah."

"And better again."

A breath of laughter came through the line. "Yeah."

You smiled.

The call timer beeped faintly.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

You let your head fall back against the rocking chair.

"I hate that sound."

"Me too."

"Tell me about your day."

His pause told you the answer was no.

You lifted your eyebrows though he could not see.

"Andrew."

"What?"

"Tell me something boring."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want every call to be me giving you Andie updates while you disappear into listening mode."

"I like Andie updates."

"I know. Tell me something boring anyway."

He was quiet for a second.

Then, "They served bad chicken."

You smiled. "That's terrible."

"Dry."

"How dry?"

"Very."

"Compelling."

"You asked."

"I did."

He continued, reluctantly at first, then with a little more ease. Bad chicken. Loud guy in the next unit. Recording programme had another slot next week. He had looked at the book list and there was one about a bear that seemed "less stupid than the rabbit one."

You laughed.

He tried to explain why the rabbit book was stupid.

You listened.

Andie slept through all of it, which felt like a miracle.

Near the end of the call, Andrew asked, "You play the recording every day?"

Your chest softened.

"Every day."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes more than once."

"She doesn't get sick of it?"

"No."

"You?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Andrew, I listen to your voice read a duck book while wearing pyjamas covered in spit-up. I have never loved you more."

He went quiet.

Then, softly, "That's weird."

"It is."

"I love you too."

You smiled into the dim room.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

Andie stretched against you, one arm lifting, fist opening.

You looked down.

"She's doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"Stretchy arm."

"What's that?"

"You know. The newborn stretch. Where they lift both arms like tiny old men waking from a nap."

"I don't know that."

"You will."

The words came out before you could stop them.

Not maybe.

Not someday if the system allowed.

Will.

Andrew went quiet.

Your eyes burned.

"You will," you repeated softly.

"I want to."

"I know."

"I want all of it."

"You'll get pieces."

His breathing shifted.

You hated that it was true.

But pieces mattered.

A recording.

A smile.

A phone call.

A tiny hand through glass.

His daughter knowing his voice.

"And someday," you said, "you'll get more than pieces."

He did not answer for a moment.

Then, "Yeah."

You knew he did not fully believe it yet.

That was okay.

You could believe enough for tonight.

"Ask me again," you said.

"What?"

"About the smile."

Andrew breathed out shakily.

"She smiled?"

You smiled through tears.

"She smiled."

"At my voice?"

"At your voice."

"What did she look like?"

You looked down at Andie.

"She looked happy," you whispered.

The line went silent.

You could hear the words reach him.

Happy.

His daughter.

At his voice.

"She looked happy," he repeated.

"Yeah."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You moved the phone near Andie one last time without him asking.

"Say goodnight."

Andrew's voice came softer.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She stayed asleep.

"I love you. Keep smiling at the duck story. Your mom likes it."

You laughed quietly.

"And sleep for her tonight."

You brought the phone back.

"She will ignore that."

"Probably."

"She's your daughter."

"Yeah," he said.

There was no fear in it this time.

Only warmth.

"She is."

The final warning beeped.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

"I know."

You closed your eyes.

That still got you every time.

The line clicked off.

The room went quiet.

You stayed in the rocking chair for a long time after, Andie sleeping against your chest, your phone resting in your lap.

The player sat on the side table.

You looked at it.

Then at your daughter.

"You smiled at him," you whispered.

Andie slept on, mouth soft and relaxed.

You smiled.

"Show-off."

Andrew lay awake that night, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

The unit had quieted.

Mostly.

There was always noise somewhere. A cough. A door. Someone muttering in sleep. Pipes knocking in the walls.

But beneath all of that, he heard your voice.

She looked happy.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to imagine it.

Andie on the blanket.

Her little fists.

The dark hair.

The frown.

Then the smile.

He could not get the shape right.

That frustrated him at first.

He wanted to know exactly. Wanted to see it properly. Wanted to hold the moment in his hand and study it until it belonged to him.

But maybe that was not how this worked.

Maybe some things could be his without being fully seen.

A recording sent home.

A smile he missed but caused.

A daughter who knew his voice before she could know his face.

Andrew turned onto his side and reached under his pillow.

His fingers found the folded copy of the photo from the contact visit — you had managed to get one printed after all. Him in the beige room, holding Andie with your head leaned against his shoulder, his eyes down on the baby, your hand around his wrist.

He held it carefully in the dark.

Tomorrow, maybe he would ask about recording the bear book.

Maybe the rabbit one too, even if it was stupid.

Maybe all of them.

If his voice could reach her, he would send as much of it as they allowed.

Across the city, in the green nursery, you pressed play one more time before laying Andie down.

Static.

A page turning.

Then his own voice, rough and careful.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie slept through the rest of the story with one tiny fist curled beside her cheek.

And behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody fell asleep trying to imagine the shape of his daughter's smile.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

@changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394  @fromirkwood

You told yourself the duck onesie was practical.

It was clean.

It was soft.

It had snaps that didn't make you want to throw it across the room at three in the morning.

Those were all practical reasons.

The fact that Andrew loved it was irrelevant.

Mostly.

Probably.

You stood in the nursery with Andie lying on the changing mat, her tiny legs kicking with great seriousness while you tried to get one foot through the correct opening.

"Stop fighting the duck suit," you murmured.

Andie made a small offended sound.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I insult your dignity?"

She blinked at you.

You smiled despite yourself and fastened the final snap.

There.

Tiny yellow ducks.

Dark hair sticking up slightly near her crown.

Andrew's frown already forming even though she was only a few weeks old and had absolutely no bills to pay.

You looked down at her and felt your chest do the painful, impossible thing it did fifty times a day now.

She was real.

Still.

Every morning, somehow still surprising.

You brushed one finger gently over her cheek.

"Your dad is going to lose his mind."

From the doorway, Deran said, "You're dressing her emotionally."

You turned.

He stood there with two takeaway coffees in one hand and a packet of nappies under his arm, looking deeply unimpressed for a man who had voluntarily shown up at nine in the morning with baby supplies.

"I'm dressing her practically," you said.

"It has ducks."

"Ducks can be practical."

"No, they can't."

"You have no proof of that."

"You put her in the duck onesie because Pope likes it."

"I put her in the duck onesie because it was clean."

Deran looked at the laundry basket overflowing beside the wardrobe.

"There are four clean things on top of that pile."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why are you inspecting my laundry?"

"It's right there."

"Stop perceiving my laundry."

He huffed and stepped into the room, setting one coffee on the dresser. "That one's decaf."

You softened immediately.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever."

Andie kicked both legs.

Deran looked down at her.

His face changed.

It always did, even though he tried to stop it. Something in him went quieter around her, like she made the whole room less easy to joke inside.

"Hey," he said.

Andie stared past him at absolutely nothing.

Deran nodded. "Good talk."

"She's very selective."

"She looks like she's judging me."

"She is."

"She gets that from you."

You laughed and lifted her carefully from the changing mat. Your body still felt strange most days. Better than those first raw days after birth, but not fully yours yet. There were aches you had learned to move around, a tiredness that sat under your skin, and a new constant awareness of Andie's weight in your arms.

Not heavy.

Never heavy.

Just there.

A whole person.

Deran watched you shift her against your chest.

"You okay going today?"

You glanced up.

His voice had gone casual in the way Cody men used when they were being very, very not casual.

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You look tired."

"I have a newborn."

"Yeah. That's why I asked."

You looked down at Andie.

She had started making little rooting motions against your shirt even though she had eaten forty minutes earlier, because apparently babies worked according to laws no one had written down properly.

"I'm okay," you said, softer.

Deran leaned back against the dresser.

"It's glass today?"

Your throat tightened.

"Yeah."

He nodded once.

No contact room.

No special approval.

No one impossible hour of Andrew holding both of you like the world had narrowed down to his arms and your daughter's breathing.

Just the regular visiting room.

Booth five.

Phones.

Glass.

Andrew had held Andie once now.

That was the blessing.

That was also the wound.

Deran looked down at his coffee.

"That's gonna suck."

You laughed once.

Small and honest.

"Yeah."

He nodded again.

Then he looked at Andie in the duck onesie.

"He'll like that, though."

Your smile trembled.

"I know."

Deran cleared his throat.

"Okay," he said, pushing off from the dresser. "Let's get this emotionally practical duck baby on the road."

You laughed properly then.

Andie startled at the sound, eyes widening.

You kissed the top of her head.

"Sorry," you whispered. "Your uncle is ridiculous."

Deran paused in the doorway.

"Uncle?"

You looked up.

He was staring at you.

You blinked. "What?"

"You said uncle."

Your face softened.

"Oh."

He looked away too fast.

"Don't make it a thing."

"I wasn't."

"You were about to."

"I absolutely was."

"Don't."

You smiled down at Andie.

"Your uncle Deran is emotionally fragile."

"I can still leave you here."

"No, you can't."

"No," he admitted. "I can't."

Andrew knew it was going to be glass.

He had known for three days.

That did not help.

He stood in the visiting room line with his hands at his sides and tried not to think about the weight of Andie in his arms.

It was impossible.

His body remembered before his head could stop it.

The warm curve of her.

The way she had fit against his chest.

The tiny sound she made when he said her name.

The frown.

His frown, apparently, though he still thought you were exaggerating.

He could still feel your hand on his wrist too.

Your mouth.

Your cheek against his shoulder.

The way you had leaned into him when he held her, like for one hour all the months of distance had been suspended in the space between your bodies.

Now it was glass again.

Phone again.

Touching nothing.

He told himself seeing them through glass was still seeing them.

It did not help much.

The door opened.

He walked in.

Booth five.

You were already there.

Andie was against your chest, wrapped in a blanket, her little face turned toward your throat.

Andrew stopped.

For a second, the glass disappeared because all he saw was you.

Tired.

Soft.

Beautiful in a way that hurt.

Then Andie shifted.

The blanket moved.

Yellow ducks.

His breath caught before he could stop it.

You picked up the phone.

He sat and grabbed his.

"You put her in the ducks," he said.

No greeting.

No question.

Just that.

Your smile warmed and ruined him at the same time.

"She chose them."

His eyes dropped to Andie. "She can't choose clothes."

"She has strong opinions."

"She's a baby."

"She's a Cody."

Andrew looked up at you.

Your mouth twitched.

His did too.

Barely.

But enough.

"Hi," you said softly.

His throat tightened.

"Hi."

"You okay?"

"That's my question."

"I'm stealing it."

He looked at you through the glass.

You had dark circles under your eyes. Your hair was pulled back, but not well. His old flannel was draped over your shoulders again, sleeves rolled messily at the wrists. Andie's cheek rested against your chest, tiny mouth relaxed, one fist tucked under her chin.

The sight made him ache.

Not only from missing it.

From loving it.

"I'm okay," he said.

Your gaze softened, like you knew all the ways that answer was incomplete and decided to let him have it anyway.

"She sleep?"

"Sometimes."

"That means no."

"That means she sleeps like a newborn."

"That means no."

You sighed. "No."

"Eating?"

"Yes."

"You?"

You gave him a look. "Also yes."

"Enough?"

"Andrew."

"What?"

"You have moved from baby interrogation to wife interrogation very quickly."

"You both need food."

"She gets hers directly from me. It's very hard to forget."

His eyes widened slightly.

You laughed.

"Oh, don't look so alarmed. You know how babies work."

"I know."

"You look scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You are absolutely scared."

"I'm concerned."

"About breastfeeding?"

"About all of it."

Your expression softened.

Andie made a tiny sound against your chest.

Both of you looked down.

She shifted, scrunched her face, then started fussing.

Not crying yet.

Just winding up.

You adjusted her carefully, bouncing her a little against your shoulder.

"Hey," you murmured. "It's okay."

Andrew's hand tightened around the phone.

The sound went through him strangely.

He had heard her fuss on calls.

He had heard her cry.

But seeing it through glass, seeing her tiny face crumple while he could not reach either of you, made something hot and useless move through his chest.

Andie fussed harder.

You shifted again.

"I know," you whispered, kissing her hair. "I know. It's loud in here."

Andrew leaned closer.

"Put me on."

Your eyes lifted.

"What?"

"The phone."

You looked down at Andie.

"She's upset."

"I know."

"She might scream directly into your ear."

"That's okay."

For a second, you just looked at him.

Then you nodded.

You moved the phone from your ear and held it near Andie, careful not to press it too close.

"She's listening," you said.

Andrew's voice changed before he even thought about it.

Low.

Quiet.

The voice that had become hers somehow.

"Hey, Andie."

Andie fussed.

Her little face crumpled.

Andrew swallowed.

"Hey, baby girl. It's me."

Her crying caught.

Not stopped.

Caught.

A tiny interruption in the rhythm.

You went very still.

Andrew saw it.

He kept talking.

"I know. This place is loud. I don't like it either."

Andie made a small distressed sound.

"But you got the ducks on," he said. "That helps."

A wet laugh slipped out of you.

Andie's fussing softened from the edge of a cry into hiccupping little complaints.

Andrew kept his eyes on her.

"You saw me already," he said softly. "Remember? I held you. You slept on me."

His throat tightened.

The words almost got stuck.

He forced them out anyway.

"You were warm."

Your face crumpled behind the glass.

Andie quieted.

Not fully asleep.

Not peaceful.

But listening.

Her eyes opened slightly, dark and unfocused, shifting vaguely toward the phone.

Andrew stopped breathing.

You brought the phone back to your ear slowly.

"She knows your voice," you whispered.

Andrew could not answer.

His eyes stayed on Andie.

She was still looking toward the sound.

Toward him.

Not seeing him, probably. Not really. The books said newborn eyesight was blurry. He had read that twice.

But she knew something.

The voice.

The rhythm.

The shape of him in sound.

Andrew pressed his palm flat to the counter, because if he didn't put his hand somewhere, he was going to break.

"She knows your voice," you said again, softer.

His jaw worked.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

Andie made another tiny noise.

Not upset now.

Just there.

You smiled down at her. "See? That's Daddy."

Andrew's eyes burned.

Daddy.

He had heard you say it before.

Every time, it landed somewhere new.

You shifted closer to the glass, lifting Andie carefully so she faced him more. Her head wobbled slightly, supported by your hand at the back of her neck.

"She's looking," you said.

"At what?"

"At the blur that is probably you."

A rough laugh left him.

Andie blinked slowly.

Her tiny hand escaped the blanket.

You caught it gently between your fingers.

Andrew watched like his whole world had become that hand.

So small.

Ridiculously small.

Perfectly formed fingers curling and uncurling against your thumb.

You looked up at him through the glass.

"Do you want to..."

You did not finish.

You didn't need to.

Andrew lifted his hand.

Slowly.

Like he was afraid of frightening her even through the barrier.

You brought Andie's hand to the glass.

Her palm pressed flat, tiny and loose, supported by your fingers.

Andrew placed his hand on the other side.

His palm dwarfed hers completely.

Glass between them.

Your fingers around hers.

His hand opposite.

For a second, none of you moved.

The room around you faded.

The other visitors.

The guards.

The phones.

The ugly lights.

All of it blurred around the smallest hand in the world pressed to the barrier between Andrew and his daughter.

Andrew's mouth trembled.

"Hi," he whispered, even though the phone was at your ear and she could not hear him that way.

You heard.

That was enough.

You looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

"She's touching you," you said.

His eyes flicked up.

Then back down.

"Not really."

"Yes," you said. "Really enough."

His face changed.

Really enough.

That was what so much of this had become.

Phone calls were not holding, but they were really enough to calm her.

Recordings were not bedtime in his arms, but they were really enough to fill the room.

Glass was not skin, but right now, his daughter's hand was opposite his and yours was holding her there.

Really enough.

Andrew nodded once.

Barely.

You pressed Andie's hand there a moment longer.

Then she squeaked, unimpressed, and curled her fingers.

You laughed softly.

"She's over it."

His mouth twitched.

"Like you."

"Like you."

Andie yawned then.

A huge, dramatic newborn yawn that took up her whole face.

Andrew stared.

"She does that a lot," you said.

"Yawns?"

"Yes, Andrew. Babies yawn."

"I know."

"You always sound surprised."

"I still am."

You smiled.

His hand stayed on the glass even after you lowered Andie back against your chest.

He did not seem to notice.

Or maybe he did and simply did not want to move it yet.

You didn't tell him to.

For a while, you talked about small things.

Andie's hatred of swaddling.

Andie's conflicting hatred of not being swaddled.

The way she slept with both hands near her face like she was ready to fight someone in a dream.

Deran falling asleep upright on your sofa and denying it while still half asleep.

Andrew listened to all of it.

Every ridiculous detail.

He asked questions that were half practical, half desperate.

How much was she eating?

Did she still make the angry rooting face?

Was the duck on the shelf or had it been moved?

Was the chair still loud?

Were you taking the pain medicine on time?

That last one made you pause.

Mostly because you had not been.

Andrew saw it.

Even through glass.

"Baby."

"I'm mostly taking them."

His gaze narrowed.

"What does mostly mean?"

"It means I am an adult woman who knows how to take medication."

"It means you forgot."

"It means newborns are distracting."

"It means you forgot."

You huffed. "Maybe once."

His eyes stayed fixed on you.

"Twice."

Andrew's expression did not change.

You sighed. "Fine. Deran has set alarms."

"Good."

"He labelled one 'take your damn pills.'"

"Good."

"He labelled another one 'Pope would yell.'"

Andrew nodded. "Accurate."

You laughed.

Andie startled.

Both of you froze.

She settled again.

You lowered your voice. "You're both bullies."

"You need sleep."

"I need a clone."

"No."

"No?"

"One of you is enough."

Your eyes softened.

Andrew seemed to realize what he had said a second later. He looked down, but you caught the warmth before he could hide it.

The visit timer crackled overhead.

Ten minutes.

The sound went through you like a small blade.

Andrew's hand finally dropped from the glass.

Andie shifted against you, her mouth making soft sleeping movements.

You looked down at her.

Then back at him.

"It was harder today," you said quietly.

Andrew's eyes lifted.

He knew exactly what you meant.

No contact room.

No arms.

No kissing.

No Andie warm against his chest.

Just glass again.

He looked at his hand where it rested on the counter.

"Yeah."

Your throat tightened.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped up.

"No."

"I know. But—"

"No."

You stopped.

He leaned closer, voice low.

"Don't be sorry for bringing her."

Your eyes burned.

"I'm not."

"Good."

He looked at Andie.

Then at you.

"It was easier before I knew what she felt like," he admitted.

The honesty hurt.

You had expected it, maybe.

Still, hearing it made your chest ache.

"I know."

His jaw tightened, but he did not spiral.

He did not turn the pain into apology.

He just sat with it.

That, too, was new.

"But I know now," he said.

Your face softened.

"And that's good."

You nodded.

"It's good," he repeated, like he was making himself believe it because it was true and because truth sometimes had to be held steady with both hands.

Andie stirred.

You lowered your mouth to her forehead.

"She still knows you."

Andrew looked at her.

Then at the phone.

"Yeah?"

You smiled through tears.

"Andrew, she practically stopped mid-meltdown because you told her the prison was loud and praised her outfit."

His mouth twitched.

"The ducks help."

"The ducks help," you agreed solemnly.

The loudspeaker called five minutes.

You hated every announcement in this building.

Andrew looked at Andie like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of her sleeping against your chest.

"She bigger?"

"Since the contact visit?"

"Yeah."

"A little."

"I thought so."

"You saw her for one hour."

"I know."

"And you can tell she grew?"

"Yes."

You smiled. "Obsessed."

His eyes stayed on his daughter.

"Yeah."

No denial.

No shame.

Just yes.

You looked at him and felt your heart fold itself in half.

The last minutes went too quickly.

They always did.

You promised to send pictures.

He told you to take your medication.

You told him not to be bossy.

He ignored that and reminded you to drink water.

You asked about the recording programme, and he said the first one had been approved for mailing.

Your expression changed.

"It's coming?"

"Should be."

"You read the duck one?"

"Yeah."

"Was it good?"

His mouth tightened.

"It was a book."

"That is not an answer."

"It had a duck."

"Also not an answer."

"It was fine."

You narrowed your eyes. "Andrew."

"I did the voices."

Your mouth fell open.

"You did not."

His eyes flicked away.

"You did?"

"Don't make it a thing."

"Oh, I am absolutely making this a thing."

"Don't."

"You did duck voices?"

"One voice."

"Andrew Cody."

"Baby."

"You recorded yourself doing a duck voice for your daughter."

His jaw tightened, but there was color high on his cheekbones.

"She might like it."

Your face crumpled.

All teasing disappeared.

"She will love it."

He swallowed.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

The guard stepped closer.

Time.

You stood slowly, careful with Andie against your chest. Your body still ached if you moved too fast, and Andrew noticed because of course he did.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Pain medicine."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

His face softened.

You lifted Andie's tiny hand from the blanket.

Just a small wave.

Andrew pressed his palm to the glass again.

"Bye, baby girl," he whispered.

You looked at him.

"I love you," you said.

His eyes lifted.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

This time, he did not ask if you were sure.

He looked at Andie.

Then at your fingers supporting her tiny hand.

"I know," he said.

Your breath caught.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he finally had enough proof to hold.

You smiled through tears.

Then you turned and left.

Behind you, Andrew kept his palm on the glass until the door closed.

The package was waiting when you got home.

Deran saw it first.

He had carried the diaper bag in while you carried Andie, who had fallen asleep in the car and was now making tiny dream noises against your shoulder.

There was a padded envelope on the hallway floor just inside the door, pushed through the letter slot at an odd angle.

Deran picked it up.

His expression changed.

"What?"

He looked at the return label.

"Family services thing."

Your heart jumped.

"The recording?"

"Looks like."

You shifted Andie higher against your chest.

She stayed asleep.

For once.

Deran looked from the envelope to you.

"You want me to open it?"

"No."

You said it too quickly.

He nodded and handed it over without comment.

The envelope was light.

Inside was a children's book.

Bright cover.

Yellow duck.

Of course.

A small plastic sleeve was attached to the inside with a labeled audio file on a simple approved player.

Your fingers trembled when you opened the cover.

On the dedication page, in Andrew's careful handwriting, were four words.

For Andie.

From Dad.

You inhaled sharply.

Deran looked away immediately.

"Jesus," he muttered.

You laughed wetly. "Yeah."

You carried the book upstairs to the nursery.

Deran followed, quieter now.

He did not make a joke about the chair.

He did not make a joke about ducks.

That was how you knew he was already emotionally compromised.

You sat in the green rocking chair with Andie against your chest. The room was dim, warm from the late afternoon sun. Andrew's wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo. The hospital bracelet lay in a little dish. A clean blanket hung over the arm of the chair.

Deran stood near the doorway, arms crossed.

"You don't have to stay," you said.

"I know."

"You want to?"

"No."

You looked at him.

He sighed. "Fine. Yeah."

You smiled.

Andie stirred, making a small grumbly noise.

"Okay," you whispered. "Let's hear Dad."

Deran shifted against the doorframe.

You pressed play.

For a second, there was static.

A small scrape.

Then Andrew's voice filled the nursery.

"Hi, Andie."

Your face crumpled instantly.

Deran looked at the floor.

On your chest, Andie went still.

Andrew's voice was rougher than usual, like he had been nervous.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie's eyes fluttered.

You pressed your lips together to keep from sobbing too loudly.

There was a pause on the recording.

Then Andrew cleared his throat.

"This is a duck book," he said.

Deran made a strangled sound.

You looked at him through tears.

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You are not."

"Shut up."

The recording continued.

Andrew read slowly at first.

Too slowly.

Like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

Then he found a rhythm.

His rhythm.

Low and careful, turning the silly little duck story into something softer than it had any right to be.

He did the duck voice.

Barely.

It was more of a slight change in tone than a full voice, but you caught it immediately.

Deran did too.

He covered his mouth with one hand and turned toward the wall.

You started crying harder.

Andie relaxed against your chest.

Completely.

Her tiny fist opened.

Her cheek settled against you.

By the second page, she was asleep.

You looked down at her, then back at the book.

Andrew's voice kept going.

In the room he had helped choose.

Beside the duck he had carved.

Around the daughter who knew him by sound before she knew almost anything else.

Deran was suspiciously silent by the door.

You glanced at him.

His eyes were red.

"Deran."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"No."

You smiled through tears and looked back down at Andie.

The story ended after a few minutes.

There was a small pause.

Then Andrew's voice came back softer.

"Goodnight, Andie."

Your breath hitched.

Another pause.

"I'm here."

The recording clicked off.

The room went quiet.

Not empty.

Not anymore.

You sat very still, Andie asleep against your chest, the book open in your lap.

Deran cleared his throat.

"That was..."

He stopped.

You looked up.

His face was turned toward the window.

"Yeah," you said softly.

He nodded once.

"That was good."

Your smile trembled.

"It was."

Andie sighed in her sleep.

You looked down at her.

"She knew."

Deran looked at her too, expression soft and unguarded for once.

"Yeah," he said. "She did."

You leaned back in the chair and pressed your cheek gently to the top of your daughter's head.

On the shelf, the wooden duck watched over the room.

In your lap, the book rested open.

Andrew's voice was gone from the player, but somehow still there.

In the walls.

In the green.

In the quiet.

He was not home.

Not yet.

But his voice had arrived before him.

Andie slept through the rest of the afternoon with one tiny fist curled against your chest, while Andrew's voice filled the green room like he had found another way back to both of you.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

Andrew could still feel her.

That was the worst part.

Or maybe the best.

He could not tell anymore.

He sat on the edge of his bunk with his hands resting open on his knees, palms up, fingers slightly curved like his body had not yet understood that his daughter was no longer there.

Andie.

Andie Hope Cody.

The name still moved through him like something too bright to look at directly.

He had said it six times since they brought him back.

Once in the hallway, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Once under his breath when the door shut behind him.

Once sitting on the edge of the bunk, staring at nothing.

Three more times after that, each one softer than the last.

Andie.

His daughter.

His girl.

His.

Not in the way the Codys had always meant mine. Not ownership. Not blood as a chain. Not a name used like a hook.

His as in beloved.

His as in held.

His as in somewhere in the world, a three-day-old baby existed who had slept in his arms and made a tiny grumbling sound against his chest like she had opinions about prison-issued fabric.

His daughter had been warm.

That was the thing he could not get past.

She had been warm in a way nothing in here was warm. Not the blankets. Not the food. Not the showers with their bad pressure and worse timing. Not the sun through the window when it hit the concrete floor in pale squares.

Andie had been warm like life.

Like proof.

Like every impossible thing Andrew had stopped expecting from the world had been placed carefully into his hands and told him to support the head.

He looked down at his arms.

Empty now.

Still shaped around her.

His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with injury.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He could still feel you too.

That was not better.

Your fingers in the front of his shirt.

Your mouth on his after months of glass.

Your cheek against his chest.

Your hand on his wrist while he held Andie.

The way you had leaned into him like your body remembered before your brain could decide whether it was allowed.

He had held you carefully because you were three days postpartum and exhausted and hurting and stubborn enough to drag yourself into a prison contact room because you had decided he needed to meet his daughter.

He had wanted to hold you harder.

That want sat in his ribs now, aching.

He had wanted to put one hand on the back of your head and the other around your waist and keep you there until every bad month between you gave up and left. He had wanted to kiss you until the guard knocked. Until Craig kicked the door in. Until the whole prison complained.

He hadn't.

He had been careful.

Careful with your body.

Careful with Andie.

Careful with the hour because if he touched it wrong, it might break.

Then it ended anyway.

The thing about good moments was that they still ended.

Andrew dragged a hand down his face and looked at the wall near his bunk.

The photo of you in the nursery was there.

The scan photos.

The note that said It's a girl.

The list of names, folded and unfolded so many times the creases had gone soft.

And now, written on the inside of his wrist in faint pen because he had not trusted paper alone, was her name.

Andie.

He looked at it until the letters blurred.

A knock sounded at the open edge of his cell.

Andrew looked up.

One of the programme officers stood there with a folder tucked under her arm. She was older than most of the staff. Less hard around the mouth. Not soft exactly, but not looking for reasons to be cruel either.

"Cody."

He stood automatically.

She looked at him for half a second, then at the wall of photos.

Her expression did not change much.

"Family services approved the next step," she said.

Andrew frowned slightly. "Next step?"

"The reading recordings."

He stared at her.

She opened the folder and pulled out a sheet. "For eligible inmates with young children. You can record yourself reading approved children's books. The recording and book get sent to the child's caregiver after review."

Andrew's mouth went dry.

A book.

His voice.

Sent home.

To Andie.

To you.

"She's three days old," he said.

The officer looked at him over the top of the paper. "Babies can still hear."

His throat tightened.

He looked down.

The officer continued, either not noticing or pretending not to. "You'll pick from the approved list. Nothing personalized beyond the permitted opening and closing statements. No messages to anyone else except the child. No coded language. Recording is reviewed before release."

Andrew barely heard half of it.

His voice.

In the green room.

When he couldn't call.

When Andie cried.

When you were tired.

His hand closed slowly at his side.

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, if you want the slot."

He looked back up.

"Yes."

The answer came too quickly.

He did not care.

The officer nodded, made a note.

"You'll want to practice. Some guys get nervous."

Andrew almost laughed.

Nervous.

He had held guns steadier than he had held his daughter.

He had faced men who wanted to kill him with less fear than he felt at the thought of reading a children's book badly into a prison recorder.

"What books?" he asked.

She handed him the list.

He scanned it.

Most of the titles meant nothing to him.

Animals.

Bedtime.

Moons.

Bears.

Ducks.

His eyes stopped there.

A book about a duck.

Of course.

The officer noticed.

"That one's available."

Andrew folded the list carefully.

"I'll do that one."

"Alright."

She turned to leave.

Then paused.

"Congratulations," she said.

Andrew went still.

He did not know what to do with the word in here.

Congratulations.

Like he was just a man whose wife had had a baby.

Like joy could be acknowledged without turning into a weapon.

He nodded once.

"Thank you."

The officer left.

Andrew sat back down.

For a long moment, he stared at the list in his hand.

Then he looked at the photo of you in the nursery.

At your hands around your stomach.

At the duck onesie on the dresser.

At the green room waiting for his daughter.

"I'll read to you," he said quietly.

The words felt strange in his mouth.

Not bad.

Strange.

He looked down at his wrist.

Andie.

"I'll read to you," he said again.

This time, it sounded almost like a promise.

At home, Andie would not settle.

She had been fed.

Changed.

Burped.

Swaddled.

Unswaddled because she hated the swaddle.

Reswaddled because she also hated having arms.

Held upright.

Held sideways.

Rocked in the green chair.

Walked around the bedroom.

Walked around the nursery.

Walked around the landing until your stitches reminded you that you were a fool with a newborn and no survival instinct.

Nothing worked.

Your daughter was furious.

Not crying in a delicate, newborn way.

Screaming.

Red-faced. Fists clenched. Mouth wide open. Tiny body rigid with outrage.

You stood in the nursery at 1:06 in the morning, wearing Andrew's flannel over a nursing bra and pyjama shorts, your hair coming loose from the bun you had made six hours ago and forgotten about. Your entire body hurt. Your breasts ached. Your back ached. Your heart ached in a way that felt stupidly personal because a three-day-old baby was not crying at you, she was just crying.

Still.

At some point, every new mother had probably looked down at her child and thought, desperately, please like me.

You bounced her gently.

"Baby girl," you whispered. "Please. Please, sweetheart. I don't know what you want."

Andie screamed harder.

You closed your eyes.

"Okay. That's fair. I also don't know what I want."

Downstairs, Craig had fallen asleep on your sofa forty minutes ago after insisting he was not tired. Deran had gone home only because you threatened to lock him out if he kept pacing near the kettle.

You could call Craig.

You should call Craig.

Instead, you pressed your cheek to the top of Andie's soft dark hair and tried not to cry too loudly.

You missed Andrew so badly it made you angry.

Not at him.

Not even at the situation, because anger required too much energy.

Just angry in your body. In your bones. In the empty space beside you where his hands should have been. His voice. His calm, rough, bossy instructions. His way of turning fear into tasks.

Check the nappy.

Water.

Breathe.

Sit down.

Give her to me.

Except you couldn't.

You couldn't give her to him.

You had given her to him that afternoon for one impossible hour, and now your body remembered what it had felt like to have help from the one person you wanted most.

That made the night worse.

Better, maybe.

No.

Worse.

Andie screamed into your shoulder.

You sat carefully in the rocking chair because if you didn't, you were going to fall over.

The chair creaked.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

The wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo and the hospital bracelet you still had not put away.

You stared at it through tears.

"Your dad made that," you told Andie, voice shaking. "He was very stressed about the beak."

Andie did not care.

You laughed once, broken and exhausted.

"He held you today," you whispered. "Do you remember?"

Of course she didn't.

She was three days old.

Still, her crying hitched for half a second.

You froze.

Then she screamed again.

You sagged back in the chair.

"Okay. Not helpful."

The phone rang.

You nearly dropped the baby.

It was such a sharp, sudden sound in the room that your whole body jolted. Andie startled, screamed harder, and you fumbled for the phone on the small table beside the chair with one hand while trying not to let her head wobble.

The number on the screen made your breath catch.

You answered immediately.

The automated voice began.

You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—

Andie screamed over the recording.

You pressed one so fast your thumb slipped.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew's voice, already alert.

"What's wrong?"

You started crying.

That was apparently your answer.

Andie wailed against your chest.

Andrew went very still on the other end.

"Baby."

"I'm okay."

"You're crying."

"She won't settle."

Your voice broke on the last word.

Andrew's breathing changed.

Not panic exactly.

Focus.

"How long?"

"I don't know. An hour. Maybe two. Time isn't real."

"Did she eat?"

"Yes."

"Nappy?"

"Changed."

"Burped?"

"She burped on me and then screamed like I did it."

A rough breath came through the line.

Almost a laugh, but restrained.

"You sitting?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"I walked too much."

His voice sharpened. "How much?"

"Do not start."

"You had a baby three days ago."

"I noticed."

"Andie okay?"

"She's furious."

Andie screamed, as if confirming.

Andrew went quiet.

Then, softer, "Put me on."

Your face crumpled.

"What?"

"Put the phone near her."

"Andrew, she's screaming."

"I know."

"She probably won't—"

"Put me on."

You shifted Andie carefully in your arms and held the phone close enough for her to hear, not so close it touched her.

"Okay," you whispered.

Andrew took one breath.

Then his voice changed.

It became the voice he used only for her.

Low.

Careful.

A little rough.

"Hey, Andie."

Your daughter screamed.

Andrew did not stop.

"Hey, baby girl. It's me."

Andie cried hard enough that her whole tiny body shook.

Your eyes filled.

"I know," Andrew said softly. "You're mad."

Her crying hitched.

You stared down at her.

Andrew continued, quiet and steady.

"Your mom says you ate. And you got changed. So I don't know what you're yelling about."

A wet laugh slipped out of you.

Andie's cries dropped from furious screams to broken, hiccupping wails.

Your mouth parted.

Andrew kept talking.

"You had a big day. I know. Prison's not nice. I didn't like you there either."

You pressed your lips together.

"But you did good. You slept on me. You made that face."

Andie hiccupped.

"You remember that? The mad one?"

Her crying softened again.