#sidkneeeee

COME JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL MCU — @writingcrustacean @feliciahardysgf @nomajdetective @myguiltypleasures21 @clonesdserveb3tter @castielscaplan @inthetangerinelight @boomyoulookingforthis @shhhhthisaintme

ALL MCU MEN — @lastwandastan @r6ven

𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔: you’re enjoying the night on a rooftop, the city’s neon glow painting his face in shifting blues and golds. The hum of traffic below is distant, the air cool enough that you can feel the contrast of his warmth beside you. He glances at you, quieter than usual, eyes flicking between your face and the skyline. 

“I thought I was too busy chasing sparks to slow down…” Johnny murmured. 

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. He’s vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You smile, soft and sure, your chest aching in the best way. 

“But you’re right here now,” you whisper. 

Something in his expression shifts, the teasing edge you know so well replaced by something deeper, almost reverent. He holds your gaze, voice low and steady when he speaks: “Yeah. Because the brightest thing I’ve ever found … has been you.”

Marriage with Logan:

I mean not to be cheesy but...

it's bliss

you all saw him in origins with kayla (gag)

that man is a total lover boy

hes on his knees for you

he will do anything for you

He didn't think he'd get to do something like this. to experience the whole joy of getting engaged, planning a wedding, getting married

just finding his other half....He considers himself the luckiest man in the world

He takes on the role of a hubby proudly

He'll laugh and pretend the wifey and hubby mugs you got him were cliche but he uses the hubby mug every single day proudly and ignores any comments regarding it

He'll proudly introduce you as his wife (or hubby, or partner, whichever term you prefer!)

everyone sees how so in love you both are

holding hands, your arms around each other

he'll admire the ring he put on your finger all the time.

"this is a nice look for you baby"

if you going through with having a wedding wedding, logan is going to be so damn nervous

he fights all sorts of bad guys. standing in front of family and friends, being vulnerable? thats a different kind of fight

but he finds when he sees you, all prettied up walking down that aisle

well, maybe this isn't so bad

but if you end up having a something small and simple, hes just as happy

either way, he's grinning ear to ear by your side. no ones seen the wolverine happier than when he married you

theres a comfort that settles between you both after marriage. a trust that the other is going to be there. you don't have to worry about a thing with him.

If you're getting or already have your own place, your engagement/marriage kicks off nesting in him. Hes' gotta make sure that his baby is taken care of...

Speaking of babies...

Starting a family!

Oh boy

or girl?

However the conception happens, planned or accident

logan will be thrilled (after he gets over the nerves)

he'll be so supportive to you. he may take a moment and go vomit out in the bins outside but he's happy, truly

hes so supportive

i mean i talked about pregnancy headcanons before but imma go into it again

he hates seeing his love in pain, suffering, etc etc. will hold your hand the entire way.

Hold your hair back during those morning sickness events uggh

will make you tea, slice apples, whatever the hell helps you

will rub your back, feet, shoulders. whatever

he thinks your mood swings are adorable (he won't say that to your face though. he knows you'll just tear him apart)

very handsy. can't help it. you looked good pregnant w his kid

every doctor appointment. hes there.

hes strong for you, god knows you're doing the heavy lifting but he's definitely going to be anxious. worried about every little groan and huff you let out. worried about labor. your safety. the babys safety.

hes so happy to be here but he's also terrified of losing it

yes, if you wake him up at 2 in the morning, he'll go get you those weird things you're craving. he'll do it happily. no you're not bothering him.

loves when you get a burst of hormones and become feral over him. he literally wants to bang you all the time but you're pregnant and not in the mood usually

you give him small kisses at first that end up getting intense and becoming more bc you're both just so happy and your hormones is making everything so intense and he's the only thing you want and need

anyhoo...

When you're big, big, like 8-9 months. He's all over you. You could bite his head off over his clingyness but the most he's gonna do is sit across the room with his tail between his legs

his instinct screams to stay close and to protect. he's not going anywhere

designing the babies room together

SHOPPING

bad bad wolverine is holding up lil jammies with sheep on it. "This is cute" he mumbles.

you can't even bring yourself to tease him over it because he's so damn cute like this. also hes' right. those are cute jammies. put em in the cart

Logan really doesn't care about the babys sex. he's just happy to even.. have all of this. and with you.

he'd be a great boy or girl dad honestly.

they're both gonna have him wrapped around their finger

you buy a plush wolverine animal for the babys crib and logan gets emotional over it

"yknow sweetheart these things are pretty mean in real life." he says as he holds back tears. "don't know if we should..."

he's gonna go into slight shock when they baby comes. like. woah, this is happening? really? actually happening?

Of course when you start reacting to your contractions, hubby mode is going to kick in. He's all over you, talking you through everything as you go the hospital

hes scared, terrified, but hes not gonna worry about himself when you need him more than ever

WILL cry when he meets yalls baby for the first time.

Going to feel like he'd been waiting his whole life to meet them.

He's going to be an amazing dad. hes got all sorts of life experience to share with them

your kid(s) will adore their dad (and you!)

they may have their teenage phase where everyone annoys them

but Logan having memories of how his family/parents were broken apart. he doesn't want that to happen

no ones a perfect person/partner/parent. logan tries pretty damn hard

movie nights

waking up to the kids running into yalls bed

him literally trying to steal ONE private moment with you, but your child is in a "i only want this parent phase!" for one of you and won't leave you alone.

your kid(s) gagging whenever you kiss or get affectionate. it happens often.

"mom and dad are really gross"

Im gonna add adoption in here too

he's gonna be really nervous because he doesn't want to scare whoever you adopt with his mutation, and just his general self. hes big and scary.

but you meet the child you two are meant to raise and he's in love

he adores the kid just as if it was his biological because to him it doesn't matter

thats you and hims child and he's going to do his damn best to take care of you and any child you may raise together

I just love him and I want me and him to build a lil life together on a farm or a cabin and have little ones that look like him running around and just *sobs*

ALL FICS: @ilocuras24 @the-annoying-fan

ALL MCU: @luniimunii27 @decadentreviewnight @lia-pitchiner @goldfishenthusiast67

ALL MCU MEN: @r6ven @superlegend216 @llovekats

ALL PB&JJ: @sidkneeeee @tominyii

“That I can’t cook.”

“You can’t cook.”

He groans, but the sound is all warmth. “I was distracted.”

You cross the kitchen, steal the mug from his hand, and take a sip. It’s too sweet, just how he knows you like it. The gesture shouldn’t make your chest ache, yet it does, some small, quiet reminder that he remembers you in all the tiny ways that matter.

“Distracted by what?” you ask.

His mouth curves into something softer this time. “You. Existing.”

It’s ridiculous how easily he says things like that, no hesitation, no fear of sounding foolish. You’ve tried to get used to it, the way he makes affection sound like breathing, but your heart still trips every single time. “That’s a terrible excuse,” you tell him, smiling despite yourself.

He shrugs, stepping closer. “You asked.”

The warmth that radiates from him is always noticeable, never uncomfortable, just steady. You lean against his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his jumper, feeling the faint heat through the fabric. It’s one of those rare mornings where the world feels small enough to hold.

You think about how strange it is, this version of him. The Johnny everyone sees is loud, reckless, always chasing something fast enough to match his fire. Here, though, he’s softer. He laughs quieter, moves slower. He still burns, but it’s the kind of flame that warms instead of scorches.

“You’re staring again,” he says, voice teasing.

“Maybe I like what I see.”

He preens instantly, head tilted with mock arrogance. “Can’t blame you.”

You roll your eyes and push at his shoulder, though you don’t move far. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head, “but you love me anyway.”

It’s annoyingly true. You let yourself melt against him, watching sunlight flicker over the counter, catching on the mess he’s made. The domesticity of it, the burnt toast, the shared coffee, the quiet laughter, fills something in you that’s been empty for years.

“I love you,” you say softly, almost surprised by how easy it feels.

He doesn’t joke then. His hand finds yours, warm and sure. “Good,” he says. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

The kettle clicks off, a bird sings somewhere outside, and you stand there together in your little kitchen, two people who somehow made the ordinary feel like magic.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL MCU — @writingcrustacean @feliciahardysgf @nomajdetective @myguiltypleasures21 @clonesdserveb3tter @castielscaplan @inthetangerinelight @boomyoulookingforthis @westviewheartss @melodystar23song @dunbarx @sun-star-ship @radiantdanvers

ALL MCU MEN — @lastwandastan @r6ven

You met at eighteen, fresh into basic training—skin raw from buzz cuts and new boots, nerves masked behind stiff postures. Names read in alphabetical order: Torres, then yours. He turned his head at the sound of your name, and your eyes locked for the first time. No handshake. No words. Just a silent nod. All right, it said. Let’s do this.

From day one, it was like your instincts had been built in parallel. Where he stepped, you mirrored. Where you faltered, he covered. The first time you took a hit during live combat training, he was there before you hit the ground—weapon raised, stance tight, fury hidden behind discipline. The drill sergeant called it luck. Then it happened again. And again. Until it wasn’t luck anymore.

By the end of week three, everyone knew: you two moved like you’d been fighting side by side for years. Like whatever instincts most people had to work years to build, you and Joaquin had been born with—matching wavelengths, matching breath. Maybe you had in different lifetimes—past and future. Maybe in some other version of the world, you’d been soldiers in the same war, rebels in the same uprising, pilots flying in tight formation over foreign skies. 

Whatever the truth was, it ran deeper than training. Deeper than words. When he pivoted, you were already there to cover his blind spot. When you dropped your magazine, he passed his spare before you even asked. You slipped into each other's rhythms like it was second nature—like you’d already done this dance a thousand times, across a thousand battles, and were just picking up the thread again.

You started dating a year later, during a deployment that should’ve broken you both. A failed mission. A city on fire. You came back to base bruised, exhausted, and changed. You found him in the hangar, sitting on the floor in the dark, his armor still dusty, his knuckles bleeding. You didn’t say a word. You had just sat beside him, pulled his hand into yours, and let the silence stretch.

He kissed you that night and you never looked back. Now, a decade later, you’re Avengers. You’ve faced gods, aliens, HYDRA remnants, multiversal bleed. And through it all, that rhythm—the thing you forged in mud and fire—has never faltered.

Even off the battlefield, it shows up. People comment on it constantly. How you hand him his coffee without asking. How he opens doors for you half a beat before you reach them. How your chairs always angle toward each other during briefings. How, when one of you shifts during sleep, the other shifts in tandem—like your bodies still think you're clearing corners together.

It’s not performative. It’s not conscious. It just is. It’s as natural as the wind or gravity. It’s as easy as breathing. It’s like a kind of unspoken choreography that no one else could replicate, no matter how hard they tried. It’s not a trick. It’s muscle memory. It’s home.

“Left flank!” Sam barks over comms. “He’s pushing through—”

“I’ve got you!” Joaquin shouts automatically to you.

You already know he’s banking hard toward you in the air. You pivot to meet him at the base of the broken tower, shoulders back-to-back as Doom sends out another blast. The power surges, but Joaquin shields you as you fire above his shoulder. Together you’re a blur of motion, seamless. Until it isn't.

Doom’s voice bellows across the field, cold and mechanical and laced with triumph: “You think you are prepared. You think coordination will save you.”

Doom raises one hand—twisting reality into a shape that doesn’t obey physics—and hurls it at Joaquin. You don’t think, you just move. You throw yourself into him, your body slamming into his with the force of a full sprint. You twist midair, flipping to shield him with your own armor. It’s instinct. It’s training. It’s love.

Then there’s only light.

Pain isn’t what you notice first. It’s the silence.

No wind. No screaming. No heartbeat. 

For a moment, there’s just nothing. Just a void—quiet and weightless, like the moment before impact, like the space between lightning and thunder.

Then the world screams back into focus. Alarms shrieking. Metal trays crashing to the floor. Boots pounding across the tile. Shouts overlapping one another in a chaos of urgency.

“Severe internal bleeding—get her stabilized—now!”

“She’s crashing—multiple fractures, left side—chest compression failing!”

“Get the crash kit—get the med droid online, now!”

Joaquin’s voice cuts through it all like a blade: raw and unfiltered. A sound you’ve never heard from him before.

“Don’t you dare let go,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edge of panic. He’s leaning over you, eyes wild, armor smeared with your blood—his hands covered in it, shaking. “I’ve got you, mi amor. I’ve got you.”

He presses his forehead to yours for half a second, grounding himself with the contact, then pulls back just enough to watch for any sign of movement, any twitch of your hand in his. 

Nothing.

And still, Joaquin keeps holding on. Because that’s what you’ve always done for each other—since the beginning, since eighteen, since that first nod in the mud—and he’s not about to stop now.

Neither of you know how many hours pass, but he never leaves the med-bay. Not when the others come in. Not when Strange stops by to offer something grim and useless. Not even when Sam gently rests a hand on his shoulder and says, “She might not make it, brother…”

Joaquin doesn’t flinch. He just squeezes your hand and never lets go

Because the first time you held him, you were eighteen, bruised and laughing and alive in a field hospital tent with your combat gear half-shredded and your hair matted. And he had looked at you then like he is now—with that stubborn, desperate kind of love. You had turned to look at him; you didn’t speak, but you had squeezed his hand and that was all he needed to know to understand you were endgame.

“She’s stronger than any of us,” Joaquin murmured, voice hoarse. “She’ll come back.”

You wake up three days later. Everything hurts, but he’s there: eyes red and fingers threaded through yours.

Joaquin jolts when you blink. His voice cracks: “Cariño?”

“I told you not to cry on me…” your voice is a cracked whisper, but you smile at him.

Joaquin lets out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a laugh. He kisses your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

“You—you idiot,” he chokes. “You took a cosmic blast. I thought—God, I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t … you never do.”

He climbs onto the edge of your bed, pulling you gently against him. Your body is weak, but you press your forehead to his.

“Hey,” you mutter. “My left shoulder’s blown out … right ribs are a mess … you better not leave me behind in the next mission.”

“Not a chance,” he breathes. “You drag me into hell every time, remember?”

You smile faintly and whisper, “You follow me every time.”

“Always will.”

His pinky brushes yours. Even here, even now, you move in tandem.

Weeks later, the Avengers reconvene for strategy review.

As always, you and Joaquin sit side by side, chairs angled toward each other. You’re still healing—scars across your ribs, nerve twinges in your right hand—but you’re cleared for field recon again. He helps you to your feet, no words needed. You sling your arm through his instinctively, just as he shifts his weight to match your pace. 

With your arms still intertwined, he laces your fingers and squeezes your hand. Your free hand rests on his forearm just below where his elbow curves inward. You glance up at him, a sheepish, lovestruck smile on your face. Joaquin grins at you and leans forward to whisper something in your ear.

Across the room, Bucky leans toward Sam and murmurs, “Still moving like mirror images.”

With a smile, Sam replies, “That’s not training…”

“What is it then?”

“Trust,” Sam says simply. “The kind that can’t be taught.”

There’s a quiet beat, the kind that only settles when a battle’s over and the dust has finally stopped moving. Outside the war room, you and Joaquin have already slipped away—just like you always do. No dramatic exits. No fanfare. Just a quiet, instinctive retreat back to each other.

You walk through the compound side by side, feet in perfect step, your shoulder brushing his with every stride. He glances at you, just once, and you feel it—the old current, always running beneath the surface. You don’t need to speak. You never have.

Later, you sit together on the couch in the corner of the med-bay where you were fighting for your life only weeks ago. The lights are low. His hand rests over yours, thumb tracing the edge of the bandage still taped across your ribs. You're healing slowly, but you’re getting stronger everyday.

You tilt your head onto his shoulder, and he leans into it without hesitation.

“Do you ever think about how this started?” you ask quietly, voice still a little raspy from the tube they’d had down your throat. “Eighteen. Mud. Chaos. No idea what the hell we were doing.”

“I knew exactly what I was doing,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hair. “I was following you.”

You laugh, soft and tired and full of warmth. “We were kids.”

“Yeah,” he replies with a smile, turning his head toward you, “and now you’re my home.”

It’s not dramatic, but it doesn’t need to be. You’ve never been the fireworks kind of couple. You’re the kind that survives, the kind that endures. Together. Because what you have isn’t just love. 

It’s muscle memory. It’s instinct. It’s the product of years spent learning the shape of each other’s presence until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. It’s the reason you pulled him out of Doom’s blast. And the reason he refused to let you go.

You sit in silence for a long time, fingers laced. When Joaquin finally speaks again, his voice is low, like a vow whispered against the wind: “Whatever fight comes next… we do it together.”

Your grip tightens and he brushes his thumb across your knuckles.

“Always,” you answer with quiet confidence.

The recruiter had tried to impress them with half-baked Spanish and buzzwords, clearly assuming Ava wouldn’t catch the mistakes. She’d let him finish, eyebrows raised, then cut in flawlessly. 

“You assumed I wouldn't understand, huh?” she said with a sharp smile, accent curling around her words like a challenge.

“Trust me, man,” Joaquin had laughed and slung an arm around Ava’s shoulders, pride clear in every syllable. “She’s been like this since she was eight. Get used to it.”

Their first deployment was nothing like the training videos. Sand got everywhere, and grief did too. They learned the hard way what silence meant in the middle of gunfire, how to decode each other's tells—the way Joaquin’s jaw tensed before a panic attack, or how Ava went quiet when she was trying not to cry. They bled together. They saved each other more than once. In between the missions, the explosions, the letters they never sent home, they built something stronger than friendship and more sacred than routine.

And on their last night, watching the sun rise from a cracked rooftop in Kabul, the city a ghost beneath them and their hearts raw with everything they'd endured, Ava turned to him. Her hand found his in the space between words and her fingers laced tightly with his.

“So,” she murmured, eyes never leaving the sky, “are we gonna keep pretending or…?”

Joaquin didn’t answer with words—just cupped the side of her face and kissed her like he’d been waiting his whole life to catch up to her courage. He never stopped holding her close or kissing her at every possible second. And Ava never stopped kissing back.

Now, in the dark, she smiled faintly at the memory, clinging to it as the ache curled deep through her spine and hips. The contractions had started just past 3 a.m. She didn’t wake Joaquin right away. He was curled up on his side, one wing half-unfurled in his sleep like it was still scanning for threats even in dreams. His face, usually set with soldier’s tension or that infectious grin, was slack with rare peace.

So she breathed through it, counting seconds in silence, her hand pressed low on her belly where their daughter stirred like a storm. But by 3:24, she let out a soft, “Shit—” when a particularly sharp wave hit her spine. That whisper was all it took; Joaquin stirred, eyes snapping open, already reaching for her.

He didn’t jolt awake; instead, he shifted like a switch had been flipped, all instinct and muscle memory. His eyes found her first, then her belly, then the glowing numbers on the clock. Joaquin reached for her slowly, deliberately, one hand sliding into hers while the other brushed damp curls from her forehead with aching tenderness.

When his gaze returned to hers, she saw it. He was trying to mask it—his breath even, his voice steady—but Ava had known him too long. Beneath the calm, behind the soldier’s composure, his eyes betrayed the truth: he was terrified.

“Congratulations, Papa,” Ava muttered, giving him a crooked smile through clenched teeth. She inhaled sharply “You’ve got about—five minutes before I start screaming.”

“Alright, cariño,” Joaquin murmured, voice steady, calm, but already moving with the momentum of everything they'd ever survived together. “Let’s meet our baby.”

By 4:15, they were speeding down the empty early-morning streets of D.C., Joaquin glancing between the road and her every three seconds like she might disappear or give birth right there in the passenger seat. The car ride to the hospital was mostly Joaquin white-knuckling the steering wheel and muttering prayers in Spanish. Ava groaned through another contraction.

“Are you timing them?” she panted. Sweat shined on her face.

“I—I think so, baby,” Joaquin stuttered, “but my app keeps autocorrecting contractions to construction and I hate everything.”

Ava let out a long, low groan that was more war cry than complaint. Joaquin squeezed her thigh—his hand hadn’t left her since they got into the car.

“You okay, cariño?” he asked again, softly. All Ava could muster was a curt nod, jaw clenched tightly. His voice cracked as he continued, “I’ve jumped out of planes, fought alien bugs, got my ribs cracked by a vibranium shield once. But nothing—and I mean nothing—has ever scared me like seeing you in pain. How the hell are you this calm right now?”

Ava turned her head slowly, resting it back against the headrest. Through the haze of pain, a small, wry smile tugged at her lips. She reached for his hand and laced her fingers over his, grounding them both.

“Joaquin,” Ava whispered, “I’ve done PT hungover, carried your bleeding ass to a medic tent, and delivered supplies during a sandstorm in 115-degree heat. This?” She gave a breathy laugh. “This is cake.”

Joaquin made a choked sound—somewhere between admiration and sheer dread.

“You’re such a menace, Ava.”

“And you love me.”

“With my whole ass heart, querida,” he swore, yanking the wheel into the ER drop-off lane and parking like a man who had never obeyed traffic laws in his life.

Joaquin was about to leap out of the car when Ava caught his elbow, pulling him back gently but firmly. He turned to her, mouth slightly parted, as if he had something urgent to say but the words were tangled in his throat. For a long, quiet moment, they just looked at each other—worn from every battle they’d faced, breathless, and completely undone by the weight of what was coming.Ava’s fingers trembled as she reached up, cupping the back of his neck and drawing his forehead to hers.

“We’re gonna be fine,” she whispered, her voice fragile but steady.

Joaquin closed his eyes, a soft, reverent smile touching his lips, like a prayer. “You’re gonna be amazing.”

The nurses knew them—Joaquin, the Avenger with wings; Ava, the badass who taught prenatal yoga to military spouses but could also kill a man with her thighs. But today, Ava wasn’t commanding a room; today she was squeezing Joaquin’s hand so hard he thought it might shatter. They barely made it into a room before Ava was practically climbing the walls. Her quiet resolve cracked as the hours dragged on and the contractions hit harder every hour. 

Joaquin never left her side. He held her hair when she threw up. He whispered soft Spanish lullabies when the epidural took longer than expected. He cursed the outdated hospital vending machine when it ate his dollar. When she cried—not from pain, but fear—he kissed her fingers and murmured, “I got you, mami. You don’t have to be strong for me. Just be you.”

Around hour four, she finally snapped at him through gritted teeth: “If you say one more sweet thing, I swear to God I’m gonna punch you.”

“Fair,” he whispered, grinning like a fool. “But damn, you’re so beautiful when you’re homicidal.”

By hour six, she'd barked at the anesthesiologist in Spanish for taking too long. Joaquin watched in silent awe and terror as the staff scrambled like soldiers around a general.

“You are so scary when you’re in pain,” he whispered.

“You knew this,” she hissed, eyes fuming.

“I did. I just forgot how much.”

He brushed her damp bangs off her forehead and held a cup of horchata to her lips, helping her sip through the straw. The nurses—all Latina—shared amused glances. They’d been quietly obsessed with Ava and Joaquin’s unshakable bond, the way they moved together like a well-oiled machine built on love and fierce loyalty.

A soft smile finally broke through Ava’s pain, and she breathed, “I love you. I’m sorry I’m being so mean…”

“You’re not mean, mi amor,” Joaquin murmured, leaning forward to kiss her lips. “I love you too, Ava.”

It was 1:42 p.m. when their daughter finally cried for the first time. Joaquin had never heard anything more perfect in his life. Ava sobbed the second the nurse placed the baby on her chest, and Joaquin just dropped into the chair beside them, speechless and breathless. Tiny fingers. Full head of dark curls. Angry wail.

“She’s got your ears—and your lungs,” Ava murmured through tears, voice soft and awestruck.

“And your attitude,” Joaquin answered, voice thick with emotion. He kissed Ava’s temple gently, his hand resting protectively over both mother and child. “She’s perfect. You’re perfect, cariño.”

Ava turned to look at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her smile trembling but radiant. “We did it, Quino”

“You did it, Ava,” Joaquin corrected her softly.

“I couldn’t have done any of it without you, mi amor.”

For a long moment, the new parents were quiet, eyes fixed on their tiny miracle. Joaquin pressed gentle kisses—first to Ava’s forehead, then her hand, then their daughter’s delicate wrist. The room was filled with a stillness so profound it felt like the world itself was holding its breath alongside them.

“Paloma,” Ava muttered, breathless.

“Paloma,” Joaquin echoed, heart thudding.

“Peace,” Ava whispered. “She came in screaming... but I’ve never felt more peace in my life.”

The hours passed by in a blur, like a dream. Later that night Ava slept, one arm draped protectively over their newborn. Joaquin stood by the window, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, exhaustion dragging at his shoulders. Still, he smiled. He stepped forward and carefully removed his daughter from the bassinet, careful not to wake the baby or his wife. He looked down at the sleeping bundle in his arms—her second nap since being born, wrapped in a pink blanket embroidered with little wings.

“I’m gonna mess up sometimes,” Joaquin whispered to Paloma, “but I promise you this, mija: you’ll never doubt how much you’re loved. Not once—not ever.”

Joaquin glanced back at Ava. He leaned back against the wall and watched his sleeping wife in awe of her strength.

“I picked the right girl when I was eight,” he murmured unexpectedly. “You’re lucky, mija. Your mama’s the kind of strong people write stories about.” 

Paloma stirred, let out a soft sigh. Joaquin kissed her forehead and whispered, “You’re gonna fly, baby bird.”