welcome to the pitt ♡

Pope had always been a strong male lead in his brother's lives, and he prided himself on being the sole reason they grew up competent enough to do what the Cody's were best known for.

So he was feeling rather unsure of himself the minute he clocked a girl, young enough to be his niece, waddling out of Craig's room one night while he was settled on the sofa - tv on a low volume and a barely drunk beer sweating beads in his palm.

"Oh, um, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."

Your voice was like honey. Smooth, sweet and perfect. Maybe that could be something for him to focus on besides the fact the t-shirt you wore could've easily have passed off as a dress. Were you even wearing anything underneath?

"... Craig's girl."

It was barely a question, more of a statement which you nod your head at slightly anyway - cheeks flushed and fingers slipping to the hem of the thin fabric hiding your small frame.

"What'ya needing?"

"Just a glass of water-"

He stands before you have a chance to blink, taking long and precise strides towards the open plan kitchen to grab a clean glass from the cupboard above his head. It wasn't lost on him that you'd followed behind like a sweet, precious little lamb and something about that made his heart swell ten times bigger.

He'd be having words with Craig in the morning but for now, his focus was on the meek little thing that took the cup from him and used both hands to bring the water to her lips. The plush, soft looking flesh that had poor Andrew gripping the edge of the countertop until his knuckles blanched bone-white.

Your hum and place the now empty cup on the side, using the back of your hand to brush a few stray droplets from your mouth. He shouldn't of found anything you did endearing, you weren't his to look at, but there was definitely a hint of an appreciative rumble in his throat when he glanced at you - as much as it pained him to see you were looking right back at him.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

You offer a smile that could've torn him in half and set off back to bed.

He was fucked and he knew it. You, on the other hand, seemed oblivious.

Having you around the house was like a punishment of some sort. For what? He didn’t know. But you were always in low cut tops or shorts that were made from the thinnest, most flimsiest looking fabric known to man and he was pretty sure this was a layer of his own personal hell he couldn't escape from.

He knew Craig wasn't just seeing you. His brother was the last man on earth who would be committed to one person. Usually he wouldn't care, let alone push his nose into business that didn't involve him, but this felt different. A twine that curled around his gut and tightened with each breath he took.

You were too innocent for a man like Craig. But then again, maybe you were too innocent for any of the Cody's.

Which is why when you came to him sobbing, mascara running down your cheeks and blubbering about something Craig had done made him see nothing but crimson. Painful, hot and animalistic rage running through his veins as he let you collapse against him in a heap.

It takes him a good few minutes to settle you, fingers brushing along your spine until your sobs were nothing but soft hiccups.

"You deserve better. He's never been faithful. Doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"I just... I just thought..."

A shaky breath leaves your lips when you finally feel Andrew's palm dip past your shoulder blades, teasing the boundaries of your lower back.

"Does he even make you cum?"

That was the question he didn't really want an answer to despite asking it. Not if you could rhyme off the times his brother had you screaming his name. But you thankfully shake your head despite the blush that adorned your plump cheeks.

"Then... let me show you how good it can feel."

Breathless, panties hanging onto your ankle for dear life, and skin slick with sweat was how he had you on his bed - auburn curls dipped between your plush flesh as he lapped at your weeping cunt with easy precision.

"H...hmh... Pope-"

"Andrew. Call me andrew."

"Andrew..."

As if to reward you for your good behavior, two thick fingers move through your slick to dip into your tight hole. Teasing, playful - but most definitely to test the waters on what he was allowed to do without pushing you too far. Not that you minded when his mouth delved back down into your folds and he ate away at your puffy pussy like a man starved.

The orgasm was almost blinding when you finally tumbled over the finish line, hips stuttering and writhing beneath the calloused palm he had secured just above your pubic mound to keep you still. Words were hard to even consider pronouncing but he didn't give you much time to speak anyway as he let his tongue slip between your already parted lips - the taste of yourself warm and unfamiliar against your taste buds.

"Breathe... take a breath."

"...Trying."

"Good girl. Such a good fucking girl."

His guilt would come around later when he had your sleeping form pressed against his larger one. Each one of your slowed down breaths a reminder that you weren't his girl, but his brother's instead.

In that moment, his decision had to become final for his own sanity as well as yours.

Brendon Park was a name that often required a whispered tone and a quick glance over a person's shoulder for good measure, but it never seemed to settle under your skin and scare you into silence like it did the rest, no matter what he did to change your stance.

But as much as the Shark loomed in every room he occupied, focused eyes dark and calculating as he assessed his way through multiple ortho consults with scarily accurate precision, you never stopped offering him a warm smile and a friendly greeting whenever you clocked in for your shift.

And in all honestly... he never called you out for it, either. In fact, a heat he couldn't quite put a name to always seemed to bloom in the pit of his stomach whenever he saw the curve of your lips that forced pretty little dimples to situate themselves deep into your cheeks.

If it was anyone else, the idiots down in the ER for example, he would've used his usual arsenal of insults. Maybe even a glare that would've wiped the happiness straight off their faces. But with you? It was an entirely different story.

"Afternoon!"

You'd sing-songed cheerily, bag slung over your shoulder and cheeks flushed from the autumn chill that had swept in alongside you through the automatic door.

"... angel."

There it was, that silly little nickname he couldn't stop himself from uttering no matter gow hard he bit his tongue. Angel, sometimes Angelface when you give him that signature grin that tugged at his heart strings and made his throat run dry. Maybe a playful 'cherub' on a day that you practically smoothed away the jitters of a nervous child with a grade one, complete transverse fracture. Not because of your height - god forbid he joked about you being a shortass to your face.

For all he knew, you held the key to the softer side of him - and despite hating that he felt weak in your presence, he never avoided bumping into you throughout the day.

"Scrub up. You'll need it for bay three."

"Yessir. What's the dealio?"

"Lookin' at a displaced fracture of the leg. Car crash according to that numbnuts from emergency."

"Numbnuts being... Robby? Langdon? ... you wouldn't talk about my Denny like that, would you?"

If he rolled his eyes at that, he knew they'd go missing right into the back of his skull from the sheer force. You had an awful habit of picking up strays and that included two of the new residents upstairs.

"Robinavitch. Why? is Whitaker the newest reject you've added to your collection?"

It was your turn to scoff and slap a hand against his chest. The absolute set of imaginary brass balls you had when it came to touching Shark never went unnoticed by the other orthos, even if they never mentioned it out loud.

You had learned not to trust dates until they became doors.

Dates moved. Dates changed. Dates got written down in official language and then undone by someone behind a desk who did not understand that maybe could keep a woman awake for three nights in a row.

So when Andrew called and sounded different, you did not let yourself hope right away.

You were sitting in the nursery with the lights low, folding tiny pyjamas from the laundry basket while Andie slept in her toddler bed, one arm flung above her head like she had survived a battle. Which, considering bath time, she sort of had.

The approved player sat on the shelf beside the stack of books Andrew had recorded over the last year. The duck one. The bear one. The moon one. The rabbit one he still claimed was stupid, even though Andie carried it around by one corner like it was sacred text.

The wooden duck watched from the high shelf. Still crooked. Still safe from Andie’s mouth.

The phone rang at 8:41.

You grabbed it before the second ring.

The automated voice began. You pressed one. Static. A click.

Then Andrew.

“Hey.”

You stopped folding. One word. That was all it took.

Something about his voice sat wrong in the room. Not bad. Not frightened. Just too careful.

“What happened?”

A pause.

“Nothing bad.”

Your chest tightened. “That is my line.”

He huffed softly, barely a laugh. Not enough to make you relax.

“Andrew.”

He was quiet long enough that your hand found the edge of the rug and held on.

“They gave me a date.”

The room went still. Not quiet. Still.

You stared at the toddler bed. Andie slept on, entirely unaware that the world had tilted.

“A date,” you repeated.

“Yeah.”

“For…”

You could not finish.

Andrew did not answer immediately. You heard prison noise behind him. Someone talking too loudly. A door. A distant scrape of metal.

Then, low and careful, he said, “Release.”

Your hand went to your mouth.

You had imagined this sentence. Of course you had. In bed. In the car. Standing in the kitchen with Andie on your hip. During visits. During phone calls. During every ordinary Tuesday where his absence sat beside you like another piece of furniture.

But imagining and hearing were not the same.

“Baby,” Andrew said.

Your eyes filled. “When?”

“Two weeks.”

You closed your eyes.

Two weeks.

Not someday. Not eventually. Not if a committee approved another hearing.

Two weeks.

“You’re coming home?” you whispered.

The line went quiet. The word was too big.

Home.

Finally, he said, “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, because he was Andrew and hope scared him more than most things, he added, “If nothing changes.”

Your face crumpled.

“If nothing changes,” you repeated.

“I don’t want you to—”

“Hope?”

He did not answer.

You wiped under one eye with the back of your hand. Too late. Hope was already there. Terrible and bright and standing in the middle of the nursery with its shoes on.

“Andrew.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to hope.”

His breath caught.

“I know things can change,” you said. “I know dates move. I know not to pack the whole world into one sentence. But I’m going to hope. I can’t not.”

He was quiet, then rougher, “Okay.”

Your laugh broke through the tears. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re letting me hope?”

“You’d do it anyway.”

“I absolutely would.”

A real breath of laughter came through the line this time. Small. Shaky. Yours.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth, smiling through tears.

“She asleep?” he asked.

You looked at Andie. “Yes.”

“She okay?”

“She’s perfect. She said Dada to the laundry basket today.”

Andrew went quiet. Then, suspiciously, “Why?”

“It was tall and brooding.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“It was a basket.”

“It had your energy.”

“I don’t have basket energy.”

“You do when you stand in doorways looking tortured.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Andrew.”

He went silent in a way that told you he was choosing not to argue because he knew you were right.

“Andie also said Dada to the ceiling fan.”

“That I understand.”

“You understand the ceiling fan but not the laundry basket?”

“The ceiling fan moves.”

You laughed again, softer this time. It felt good. To laugh with him about something as ordinary as Andie assigning fatherhood to household objects.

Two weeks.

You looked around the nursery: the green walls, the books, the photos, the duck, the little bed. The life he had been part of in pieces.

“I told her tonight,” you said.

Andrew went quiet. “Told her what?”

“That Dada’s coming home.”

The silence on the other end was immediate. Not empty. Full.

“I don’t think she understood.”

“I did,” he said.

Your eyes closed. “Oh, baby.”

He breathed unevenly for a second. Then he asked, “What did she do?”

“Clapped because I had a spoon.”

A wet, broken laugh came through the line.

“She is very food motivated right now,” you said.

“Good.”

“It doesn’t mean she understands parole.”

“No.”

“But I said it anyway.”

Andrew was quiet. “Say it again.”

Your heart folded.

You looked toward Andie’s bed, at the little rise and fall of her back.

Then you whispered, “Dada’s coming home.”

Andrew’s breathing broke.

You pressed your hand over your mouth and cried silently.

There were some sentences that changed the shape of a room.

That was one.

After a while, he asked, “The duck still on the shelf?”

“High shelf. Your daughter tried to eat it.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“The gate?”

“Crooked.”

“Craig?”

“Yes.”

“Secure?”

“Technically.”

“That means crooked.”

“That is exactly what I said.”

His voice softened around the next question. “My books?”

You looked at the stack. Duck. Bear. Moon. Rabbit. A whole row of him.

“On the shelf,” you said. “Some in her basket downstairs because she drags them around now.”

“The rabbit one?”

“Especially the rabbit one.”

“I knew it.”

“You hate that book.”

“It has good structure.”

You laughed into your sleeve. “There he is.”

Andrew went quiet for a second.

“I’m trying to picture it,” he said.

“The house?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve seen pictures.”

“I know.” He breathed out. “But walking in is different.”

Your eyes burned again.

“Yes,” you whispered. “It is.”

“What if she doesn’t know what to do with me there?”

The question came so quietly you almost missed the fear inside it.

You looked at Andie, sleeping with one socked foot peeking out from under the blanket.

“Then we let her learn.”

“What if she thinks I belong in the phone?”

Your face crumpled.

“She knows you belong more places than that.”

“She knows my voice.”

“She knows your voice. Your face. Your hands through glass. Your arms from visits. Your books. Your photo. The way everyone in this house says your name.”

He did not answer.

“She knows you’re Dada,” you whispered. “She might not understand that you’re coming home all at once. She’s fourteen months, Andrew. She still gets angry when bananas break in half. But you’re not arriving from nowhere. You’re coming home to a place that has been holding space for you.”

The line went still.

Then Andrew’s voice came back rough.

“Baby.”

“It’s true.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t have to know all of it before you walk through the door.”

“What if I do it wrong?”

“Then we do it wrong together.”

That got him. You heard it in his breath. Together had always been one of the words that hurt the most when there were walls between you.

Now it was waiting at the end of two weeks.

“Together,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

The call timer beeped faintly.

You hated that sound. Even now. Especially now.

“I love you,” you said.

His answer was immediate. “I love you.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

“Good scared?”

“I don’t know.”

You smiled through tears. “Still?”

“Still.”

“That’s okay.”

“Two weeks,” he said.

“Two weeks.”

“If nothing changes.”

“If nothing changes.”

“And if it does—”

“Then we keep going until the next door opens.”

He went quiet. Then, barely, “Okay.”

The final warning beeped.

“Andrew?”

“Yeah?”

“Dada’s coming home.”

His breath broke.

The line clicked off before he could answer.

You lowered the phone into your lap and sat in the green nursery, crying quietly while your daughter slept through the sound of the world changing.

Two weeks became ten days. Ten days became five. Five became tomorrow.

Tomorrow became a morning you were too afraid to name until it was already happening.

You woke before Andie. That never happened.

For a few seconds, you lay still in the half-light, staring at the ceiling.

Then the date landed.

Today.

Not a phone call. Not a visit. Not a special approval. Not one hour.

Today.

You got out of bed slowly, like sudden movement might startle the universe into taking it back.

Down the hall, Andie was already awake when you opened the nursery door, sitting in her little bed with wild hair, her soft duck under one arm.

She grinned at you.

“Mama.”

Your heart did the usual useless thing. “Hi, baby.”

“Da?”

You stopped.

Then smiled through the sudden blur in your eyes.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Dada.”

Andie bounced once.

“Da-da-da.”

You crossed the room and lifted her out, holding her close. Her body was warm and solid against yours. Bigger than she had been. So much bigger. The weight of fourteen months in your arms. Of first cries and first smiles and first birthdays and all the nights Andrew had lived in the room through a voice on a recording.

“Dada’s coming home today,” you told her.

Andie patted your face.

“Da.”

“Yes,” you said, kissing her cheek. “Exactly.”

Downstairs, Craig was already in the kitchen with a list on the counter.

Of course he was.

Deran sat at the table with coffee, looking like he had slept badly and would rather be skinned than admit why.

Craig looked up the second you entered. “You okay?”

You looked at him. “No.”

Deran nodded into his coffee. “Good. Honest.”

Craig gave him a look.

Andie reached toward Deran.

“Up.”

Deran softened so fast it was almost funny. He stood and took her carefully.

“There she is,” he said, low.

Andie grabbed his chain.

“No. Not that. We talked about this.”

She tugged harder.

Deran let her.

Craig looked back down at his list. “Car seat checked.”

“She is not the one going to pick him up,” you said.

“Still checked.”

“What else is on there?”

“Bag packed.”

“What bag?”

“Emergency toddler bag.”

“For me picking up my husband?”

“For after. In case you’re gone longer than planned.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Deran lifted one shoulder. “Let him have the list.”

You softened.

You were going alone to pick Andrew up. That had been the decision. Not because Craig and Deran did not matter. They did. Painfully. But Andrew walking out needed to belong first to the two of you.

Husband and wife.

No glass. No guard. No Andie yet.

Just the two people who had carried each other through phone lines and visiting rooms and paper-thin hope.

You reached for Craig’s hand and squeezed once.

“Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Deran looked pointedly at the ceiling.

“You both are very fragile today,” you said.

Craig let go of your hand. “Go get dressed.”

“Bossy.”

“You married Pope. You like bossy.”

Deran snorted.

You pointed at both of them. “I hate this family.”

Andie clapped.

“Da!”

You laughed, crying already.

Deran looked down at her.

“Yeah, kid,” he said quietly. “He’s coming.”

The room went still again.

Then Craig turned away and started aggressively wiping an already clean counter.

You went upstairs before all of you fell apart in the kitchen.

You dressed carefully. Not fancy. That would have been wrong. Jeans. Soft shirt. Andrew’s flannel over it because you wanted him to see it, because you wanted him to know you had kept wearing pieces of him until he could come back and take up space himself.

At the door, you kissed Andie three times. She tolerated two and objected to the third by pushing your face away.

“Rude.”

“Da,” she said.

“I know.”

Craig balanced her on his hip. “She’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

“You drive normal.”

“I will.”

“No crying so hard you can’t see.”

You stared at him.

Deran looked over. “That’s fair.”

“I am leaving before one of you says something else medically or emotionally offensive.”

Craig’s mouth twitched.

At the door, you turned back. Andie was watching you.

“Dada?” she asked.

You smiled through tears.

“I’m bringing him home.”

The prison looked different from the outside when you knew you were not walking in.

Every visit had trained your body for entry. ID. Security. Doors. Waiting. Glass. Phones. Leaving without him.

But today, you parked outside and stayed there.

Hands gripping the steering wheel. Engine off. Sunlight bright across the dashboard.

You did not get out right away. You were afraid if you moved, the morning would crack.

A door opened somewhere beyond the fence.

Not him.

Another person. A guard. A man you did not know.

Your phone sat silent in the cup holder.

No call. No automated voice. No static.

Just waiting.

Then the door opened again.

Andrew walked out carrying one small bag.

For a second, your body did not understand.

There he was.

No glass. No prison phone. No orange chair. No guard speaking time limits into the room.

Just Andrew in regular clothes that looked strange on him after so long seeing him in prison-issued fabric. He looked thinner than he had before all this. Older, maybe. Tired in a way sleep would not fix quickly.

But he was there.

Outside.

His eyes found your car immediately.

Then you.

You were already out before you remembered opening the door.

Neither of you moved for one breath.

Then you did.

You crossed the distance too fast. Andrew dropped the bag before you reached him, and his arms came around you so hard the whole world finally made a sound you could breathe inside.

You hit his chest with a sob.

His hand locked at the back of your head. The other arm wrapped around your back.

Not careful like the contact visits. Not timed. Not restrained by a guard at the door.

He held you like he was allowed.

Like no one was coming to tell him to stop.

You clung to him, his shirt bunched in your fists, his face pressed into your hair.

“Baby,” he whispered.

You sobbed harder.

“I’ve got you.”

“You’re out.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re out.”

“Yeah.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red. So were yours, probably.

You lifted both hands to his face, touching him like you were making sure he had not become another version of a photograph.

His jaw. His cheek. The roughness of his skin.

Real.

Andrew’s eyes closed at your touch.

“No one’s counting,” you whispered.

His arms tightened around you.

“I know.”

That broke both of you.

He kissed you then. Not gentle enough to be careful. Not rough enough to hurt. Just desperate. Shaking. Real.

Months and months of glass and watched rooms and brief, stolen contact collapsed into one kiss in a prison parking lot.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were breathing hard. Crying. Laughing a little because it was too much to hold any other way.

“You have to come home now,” you whispered.

His eyes opened. There was fear there. And hope. And something almost too fragile to name.

“Yeah,” he said.

You smiled through tears. “Good.”

Andrew was quiet on the drive home.

Not empty quiet. Overwhelmed quiet.

The outside world was loud in ways you had stopped noticing. Cars. Music from other windows. People crossing streets. A dog barking near a corner. Sunlight flashing off glass. Nobody telling him where to stand. Nobody locking doors behind him.

Andrew sat in the passenger seat with one hand gripping yours and the other resting against his thigh, fingers flexing every so often like he was checking his own body for instructions.

You did not fill the silence. You drove with one hand and held him with the other.

After ten minutes, he asked, “She walking today?”

You smiled. “Badly, yes.”

His mouth twitched. “Running?”

“Also badly.”

“Talking?”

“Mostly ordering people around.”

“Like you.”

“Like you.”

He huffed softly.

“She still says Dada to objects?”

“Less than before.”

“Good.”

“Only very important objects now.”

He looked at you.

“The coffee machine.”

“That’s fair.”

“And Craig’s shoe.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Why Craig’s shoe?”

“No one knows.”

Andrew nodded slowly, like he accepted that his daughter’s inner life was complex.

“Does she know?”

“That you’re coming?”

He nodded.

“She knows something. I told her this morning.”

“What did she do?”

“Patted my face and said Da.”

His eyes went wet immediately.

You lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.

Andrew looked down at your mouth on his hand and went very still.

“We can do that now,” you said softly.

“What?”

“Touch.”

His jaw worked.

“Yeah.”

“You can touch me in the car.”

He huffed, but it broke halfway through.

His hand slid carefully from yours to your knee. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there.

Warm.

Steady.

A miracle.

By the time you turned onto your street, his hand had tightened again.

You pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.

The house sat in front of you. Ordinary. Impossible.

The curtains in the front room were open. One of Andie’s toys was visible near the window. The yellow sun magnet still held a photo to the fridge inside. The gate was probably still crooked. The nursery was green.

Home.

Andrew stared at it.

After a long moment, he said, “That’s the house.”

You almost smiled, but didn’t.

“Yes.”

“I know that.”

“I know.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Yes.”

“Not like this.”

Your eyes burned.

“No,” you whispered. “Not like this.”

He sat there another moment.

Then he opened the door.

You met him at the front of the car and took his hand again before walking up the path.

At the door, he stopped.

You felt it. His whole body braced.

“Andrew.”

His eyes stayed on the door.

“What if I don’t fit?”

Your heart broke quietly.

You turned toward him and squeezed his hand.

“You already do. This house has been full of you for fourteen months. You’re not asking it to make room now. You’re coming home to the room that was always yours.”

Andrew looked at the door again.

Then nodded once.

You opened it.

Andie was in the living room.

One sock missing. Of course.

She stood with one hand on the coffee table, the other holding the stupid rabbit book by a chewed corner.

Craig was sitting on the floor near the baby gate, pretending to fix it. Deran was on the sofa, pretending not to watch the front door with his entire body.

Both men went still when you stepped inside.

Then Andrew came in behind you.

No one spoke.

For a second, everything held.

Craig stood slowly. Deran’s expression shifted and shut down just as fast.

Andrew looked at them. They looked at him.

There were years in that silence. Things none of you had space for yet.

Then Andie dropped the rabbit book.

Everyone’s eyes went to her.

She stared at Andrew.

Her brow furrowed. Tiny. Serious.

The exact expression that had ruined him the first time he saw her newborn face.

Andrew did not move.

He lowered himself slowly into a crouch by the door, like every muscle in his body was fighting the urge to reach too soon.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said.

Andie blinked.

Your hand went to your mouth.

Her eyes moved over him.

Face. Hands. Mouth. Voice.

Something clicked.

Maybe not all the way.

Maybe enough.

“Dada?” she said.

Andrew’s face broke.

He nodded once.

“Yeah.”

The room became very quiet.

Andie looked at you. You were crying too hard to be useful.

She looked back at Andrew.

Then she took one step.

Wobbly. Determined.

Another.

Her bare foot slapped against the floor.

Andrew’s hands lifted slightly, ready but not grabbing.

Andie made a small sound of effort and toddled toward him with the dramatic concentration of a person crossing mountains.

Halfway there, she nearly tipped sideways.

Craig twitched.

Deran grabbed his sleeve.

“Let her,” Deran whispered.

So they did.

Andrew stayed crouched, tears sliding down his face.

Andie reached him. She stopped inches away and stared.

Then she reached one hand toward his face.

Andrew closed his eyes when her tiny palm touched his cheek.

As if the touch had gone straight through him.

“Dada,” she said.

Not a question this time.

A statement.

Andrew made a sound that broke all of you.

Then he gathered her into his arms.

Carefully at first. Then closer when she grabbed his shirt and leaned into him like she had decided he was acceptable furniture.

He stood with her against his chest.

His daughter.

In his arms.

At home.

You leaned against the wall, one hand over your mouth, sobbing silently.

Craig looked at the ceiling. Deran turned toward the window.

Cowards.

Andrew held Andie like he had forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

“I’m home,” he whispered.

Andie patted his face.

“Da.”

Andrew looked at you over her head.

His face was destroyed.

“I’m home,” he said again.

You walked to him. His free arm came around you before you even reached him.

You folded into his side. Andie between you. Andrew’s hand at your back. Your face pressed to his shoulder.

No guard. No countdown. No glass.

Home.

Craig cleared his throat from somewhere behind you.

“I’m gonna…” He gestured at the kitchen.

Deran stood. “Yeah. Same.”

Neither of them moved.

You laughed through tears.

Andrew looked at them.

“Hey,” he said.

One word. Not enough. Too much.

Craig nodded, eyes red. “Hey.”

Deran shoved his hands into his pockets. “About time.”

Andrew’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

Andie grabbed his ear.

He winced.

You laughed. “Gentle.”

Andrew looked at her.

“She’s okay.”

“She is pulling your ear.”

“She can.”

“You are going to be impossible.”

“I know.”

Craig exhaled something like a laugh.

Deran looked down, smiling despite himself.

Andrew moved through the house like it was both familiar and not.

Because it was.

He had seen every corner in photographs. Heard every sound through phone calls. Knew which step creaked because you had once stepped on it during a call and he had asked about it. Knew the baby gate was crooked because he had been told many times. Knew the kitchen window caught morning light.

But seeing it was different.

Standing in it was different.

Touching it was different.

Andrew held Andie on his hip while you walked him slowly through the rooms. She did not want to be put down yet.

Neither did he.

In the living room, he stopped at the low shelf.

His photo was there. The one from the glass visit. The stupid rabbit book lay on the floor where Andie had dropped it. The approved player sat in the basket with the other recordings.

He crouched carefully, Andie still in his arms, and picked up the player.

“You still use it?”

You smiled. “Every day.”

His eyes flicked up. “Still?”

“Still.”

Andie tried to grab the player.

“No,” he said softly.

She frowned at him.

He stared.

“She’s mad.”

“She has been told no by Dada. Historic moment.”

Andie said, “No.”

Andrew looked betrayed.

You laughed. “She knows that one.”

“Who taught her that?”

“Everyone.”

He looked at Andie.

She smiled.

“No,” she said again, cheerful now.

Andrew blinked. “You’re very proud of yourself.”

Andie patted his chest.

He melted.

Immediately.

No dignity.

You took him upstairs.

The nursery door was open.

Andrew stopped in the hallway.

You rested a hand on his back.

“You okay?”

His eyes stayed on the room.

“Yeah.”

It did not sound true.

You did not push.

The green room waited. Soft walls. Creaky chair. Little bed. Books. Baskets. Blankets. The high shelf with the wooden duck.

Andrew stepped inside slowly.

Andie pointed immediately.

“Duck.”

His head snapped toward her.

Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

Andie pointed again, delighted by the reaction.

“Duck.”

Andrew looked at you.

You were already crying.

“She has never said that clearly before,” you said.

Andrew stared at the wooden duck. Then at Andie.

“You waited?”

Andie smiled. “Duck.”

He laughed. It came out broken.

“She’s showing off,” you said.

“She is,” he whispered.

He carried her to the shelf and lifted her just enough to see the wooden duck, not close enough for her to grab it.

“That’s your duck,” he said.

Andie reached.

“No eating it,” he added.

You laughed through tears. “She still wants to eat it.”

“I know.”

“She has history with that duck.”

“So do I.”

His voice went softer on that one.

You stepped beside him. The three of you looked at the small carved duck with its wrong beak. The first thing he had made for her. The first piece of his hands that reached home before he could.

Andrew’s throat moved.

“You kept me here,” he said.

You looked at him.

He was staring around the nursery. The books. The photos. The chair. The duck. The player. The evidence of him woven into every soft corner.

“You were always here,” you said.

His eyes came to yours. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t here in the way we wanted,” you said. “But you were in her bedtime. In her books. In the way she said Dada to half the furniture before she understood what it meant. You were on the fridge. On the shelf. In this room. In me.”

Andrew’s face changed.

You reached for his hand.

He gave it to you immediately.

“You were always here,” you repeated.

His fingers closed around yours.

This time, he let himself believe a piece of it.

You saw it happen.

Not all the way.

Enough.

Andie yawned, huge and dramatic.

Andrew looked at her immediately. “She tired?”

“Yes.”

“It’s early.”

“She had a big day.”

He looked panicked. “What do we do?”

You smiled.

“Bedtime.”

“Now?”

“Soon.”

“I don’t know bedtime.”

“You know parts.”

“I know recordings.”

“You know her.”

He looked doubtful.

You squeezed his hand.

“Let her teach you.”

Bedtime was chaos.

Of course it was.

Andrew had imagined it would be soft and quiet and meaningful.

It was meaningful.

It was not quiet.

Andie threw one sock into the hallway. She tried to crawl away during the pyjama change. She yelled “No” when Andrew handed her the stuffed duck, then immediately cried when he took it back. She stuck her foot in the sleeve of her sleep sack. She laughed when you sneezed. She called the lamp Dada.

Andrew looked wounded.

You nearly dropped the nappy from laughing.

“She knows you’re you,” you promised.

“She called the lamp Dada.”

“The lamp is tall and brooding.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It is extremely funny.”

Craig and Deran stayed downstairs, allegedly giving you privacy, though Craig had already come halfway up the stairs twice to ask if everything was okay.

The third time, you yelled, “We are parenting badly but safely.”

He yelled back, “Okay.”

Andrew looked at you.

“Badly?”

“With love.”

He considered that. Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Eventually, Andie was clean, changed, and in pyjamas with tiny stars on them. Her hair curled slightly at the back of her head, damp from the bath. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes heavy.

You sat in the rocking chair out of habit.

Then paused.

Andrew stood near the shelf, holding the duck book.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

“Do you want to?” you asked.

His hand tightened on the book.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“She might not settle.”

“She might not.”

“I might do it wrong.”

“You probably will.”

His eyes lifted.

You smiled softly.

“So will I. Constantly. Welcome home.”

He huffed a laugh.

You handed Andie to him.

She went willingly, sleepy and boneless now, one hand immediately gripping his shirt.

Andrew looked down at her.

Then at you.

“Sit,” you whispered.

He sat in the rocking chair.

The chair creaked.

His eyes flicked down.

You smiled. “Told you.”

“Needs oil.”

“Welcome to your first house project.”

Andie curled against his chest. Not asleep. Listening.

Andrew opened the duck book.

The real one.

Not a recording. Not his voice coming through a little speaker on a shelf.

Him.

In the room.

His daughter in his lap.

You leaned against the doorframe because if you sat too close, you were going to fall apart loudly, and Andie had only just stopped yelling at the sleep sack.

Andrew took a breath.

Then began.

“Hi, Andie.”

You pressed your hand to your mouth.

He stopped and looked up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re crying.”

“A little.”

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Good crying?”

“Home crying.”

His face softened.

He looked back down at Andie.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

Andie went completely still.

Her little head turned toward his chest.

Andrew’s eyes lifted to yours.

“She knows this one.”

You nodded, crying harder.

“She knows you.”

His mouth trembled.

Then he looked down and started reading.

Slowly.

Softly.

The same rhythm she had heard for months.

But different now.

Warmer. Closer.

His voice did not crackle. No static. No review process. No prison phone cutting out at the end.

It only had to cross the small space between his mouth and her sleepy head.

Andie’s eyes grew heavy. Her fist loosened in his shirt.

Andrew kept reading.

The duck got lost. The duck was brave. The duck found its way home.

By the final page, Andie was asleep against him, cheek pressed to his chest, one hand curled under her chin.

Andrew did not move.

He stared down at her like he was afraid breathing too deeply might undo it.

You stepped closer.

Quietly.

He looked up, eyes full.

“She’s asleep,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“On me.”

“I know.”

He looked back down.

“I don’t know what to do.”

You smiled through tears.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just hold her.”

His throat moved. He nodded once.

You sat carefully on the floor beside the chair, your hand resting on his knee.

Andrew’s free hand came down over yours.

No hesitation now.

He held you there while he held her.

Downstairs, Craig and Deran were quiet.

The house was quiet.

Not empty quiet.

Not the old quiet.

Home quiet.

Full of breath and warmth and baby toys and crooked gates and stupid rabbit books and men downstairs pretending not to cry.

Andrew looked around the nursery.

The green walls. The duck. The books. The chair. You. Andie.

His life, waiting.

Not perfect. Not easy. Not untouched by everything that had happened.

But here.

His thumb moved over your knuckles.

“I’m home,” he said.

You leaned your cheek against his knee, eyes closing.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You are.”

For the first time, Andrew’s voice did not have to fight through wires, walls, or glass.

It only had to cross the small space between his mouth and his daughter’s sleeping head.

And this time, when the story ended, no line clicked off.

No guard knocked.

No timer ran out.

The duck found its way home.

And so did he.

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Andie turned one on a Thursday.

You knew because you had checked the date six times before getting out of bed.

Not because you had forgotten.

Because it felt impossible.

A year.

One whole year since the hospital room, since Craig filming with shaking hands, since Deran pretending not to cry, since Andrew's voice through the prison phone telling you to breathe while his daughter fought her way into the world.

A year since she had been placed on your chest, furious and warm and dark-haired, with Andrew's frown already stamped across her face like a warning.

Now she was standing at the coffee table in the living room, one hand planted flat on the wood, the other clutching a soft block she had no intention of sharing with anyone.

She was wearing one sock.

The other had been missing for forty minutes.

She had a smear of banana on her cheek, a tiny yellow bow in her hair that she had already tried to remove twice, and an expression of deep suspicion aimed at the birthday outfit laid across the back of the sofa.

"No," you told her.

Andie slapped the block against the table.

"Da."

"Yes, Daddy later," you said, because that was what most of her sounds meant now, according to you and absolutely no science.

From the kitchen, Deran said, "That one was definitely block-related."

You looked over your shoulder.

He was leaning against the counter with a paper bag of pastries in one hand and a tiny birthday cupcake box in the other, trying very hard to look like he had not specifically gone to three places to find the right one.

"It was not block-related," you said.

"It was."

"She knows today is special."

"She's one. She thinks the remote is special."

"She does love the remote."

Craig came in from the hallway carrying the diaper bag, which he had packed and repacked twice with the grim seriousness of a man preparing for siege.

"Do we need two backup outfits or three?"

You stared at him.

"For a one-hour visit?"

"She got apple sauce in her ear yesterday."

"That was one time."

"How?"

You looked at Andie.

Andie looked back at you with complete innocence.

"No one knows," you said.

Craig put a third outfit in the bag.

You did not stop him.

The contact visit had been approved four days earlier.

You still did not entirely believe it.

The same family programme. The same good-behaviour notes. The same mountain of paperwork Craig had bullied into existence with phone calls, follow-ups, and a tone that made multiple people decide it was easier to say yes than continue speaking to him.

One hour.

Contact room.

Supervised.

Approved birthday visit.

You had read the message until the words blurred.

Then you had called Andrew.

He had gone silent for so long you had said his name twice.

Finally, he had said, "I get to hold her?"

And your whole chest had folded in.

Now the hour was today.

Andie's birthday.

Andrew's daughter, one year old, walking badly along furniture and saying his name like she had invented the word.

You looked at her again.

She grinned around the corner of the block.

Your eyes filled.

"No," Deran said immediately.

You blinked at him.

"What?"

"You're doing the birthday crying."

"I am not."

"You are."

Craig glanced over from the diaper bag. "She's allowed. It's emotional."

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

Craig zipped the diaper bag shut. "You cried at the cake."

"I did not cry at the cake."

"You stood in the bakery staring at it like it owed you money."

"It was too small."

"It's a baby cupcake."

"She deserves bigger."

You pressed your lips together.

Deran saw your face and looked away fast.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"You love her."

"Everyone loves her."

"You love her in a very soft uncle way."

"I will leave."

Andie slapped the table again.

"Da."

Deran looked at her. "See? She wants me to leave too."

"She is saying Daddy," you said.

"She says Dada to spoons."

"She says Dada when she sees Andrew's photo."

"She says Dada when she sees the ceiling fan."

Craig looked up. "To be fair, the ceiling fan is impressive."

You laughed despite the lump in your throat.

Andie cruised carefully along the coffee table toward the framed picture on the low shelf.

Andrew through visiting glass.

His hand pressed to the barrier.

Andie's tiny hand, months younger, held opposite it.

She slapped the frame with her palm.

"Dada."

The room went quiet.

Deran stopped pretending not to feel things.

Craig's hand stilled on the strap of the diaper bag.

You swallowed hard.

"Yeah, baby," you whispered. "We're going to see Dada."

Andie looked back at you and grinned.

Like she knew.

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe she only knew that the word Dada made your voice go soft and the house go still.

But you believed she knew enough.

That had always been the rule with Andie.

She knew enough.

The prison looked wrong with birthday clothes.

It had looked wrong with a newborn.

It looked wrong with a six-month-old.

It looked wrong with a baby in a soft yellow romper with tiny white stars, one sock already threatening escape, and a birthday bow in her hair that had somehow survived the car ride.

The building did not deserve her.

That was the thought you had every time.

It did not deserve Andrew either, but that was a different ache.

Andie sat on your hip, alert and busy, one hand fisted in the collar of your shirt. She looked around at the doors, the walls, the guards, the lights, taking everything in with the solemn intensity of a tiny judge.

Craig walked on one side of you with the diaper bag.

Deran walked on the other with the approved cupcake container.

He had complained about carrying it twice.

He had also refused to let Craig carry it because Craig "tilted it weird."

At security, the guard glanced at the paperwork.

Then at Andie.

"Birthday?" he asked.

"One," you said.

Andie stared at him.

The guard's face softened despite himself. "Happy birthday."

Andie blinked.

Then said, very seriously, "Da."

The guard looked briefly confused.

Craig looked down.

Deran coughed.

"She's selective with thank-yous," you said.

The guard waved you through.

The contact room was the same beige box you remembered.

Same table.

Same chairs.

Same too-high window.

Same walls that looked like they had been designed by someone who distrusted joy.

But today there was a small paper banner taped crookedly along one wall.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Plain block letters.

Approved, apparently.

You had not brought it.

You looked at Craig.

Craig lifted both hands. "Not me."

Deran looked away.

You turned to him slowly.

"Deran."

"What?"

"You did the banner?"

"It came with the cupcake thing."

"It absolutely did not."

"Maybe it did."

Your eyes burned.

He made a face. "Don't."

"You got her a prison birthday banner."

"Worst sentence anyone's ever said."

Craig snorted.

You laughed wetly and leaned over to kiss Andie's head.

"Your uncle Deran is very emotionally fragile today."

Deran pointed at the door. "I'm waiting outside."

"Coward."

"Correct."

Craig set the diaper bag down and squeezed your shoulder once as he passed.

Not long.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

"You good?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"No."

He smiled faintly. "Fair."

Then he and Deran left.

The door closed.

You were alone with Andie.

For maybe five seconds.

Then the other door opened.

Andrew walked in.

Andie saw him before you said a word.

She turned toward the sound of the door, one hand still clutching your shirt, bow slightly crooked, eyes bright and curious.

Andrew stopped just inside the room.

His gaze went to you first.

It always did.

A quick check.

Your face.

Your body.

Your eyes.

Still making sure you were okay, even after a year of learning that you were allowed to be tired and fine at the same time.

Then he looked at Andie.

Really looked.

And something in him went quiet.

Not empty.

Not blank.

Quiet like a room after a storm.

She was so much bigger than the newborn he had held.

That was the first thing you saw him understand.

Not because he hadn't seen photos.

He had.

So many.

Printed photos. Visit photos. Still frames from videos. Pictures with banana on her face and socks in her hands and books half chewed.

But photos flattened her.

Here, she moved.

She breathed.

She looked at him.

She knew him.

Andrew's hands flexed once at his sides.

Andie stared.

One second.

Two.

Her face lit up.

Not slowly.

All at once.

A gummy, delighted grin opened across her face, bright enough to ruin him on sight.

Then she reached both arms toward him.

"Dada!"

Andrew's face broke.

Completely.

His hand came up over his mouth.

He looked like he had been hit.

You started crying immediately.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

Andie bounced on your hip, reaching harder.

"Da-da-da!"

"Oh," you whispered, half laughing, half sobbing. "Okay. Funeral for your father, apparently."

Andrew made a sound.

It might have been a laugh.

It might have been a sob.

It was probably both.

He crossed the room carefully, like moving too fast might make this less real.

Andie leaned toward him so hard you had to tighten your grip.

"Someone remembers you," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

Wet.

Destroyed.

"She does."

Not a question.

A realization.

You nodded.

"She does."

Andrew reached you.

For a second, he only looked at Andie.

Then his eyes came back to you.

"Hi," he said.

Your laugh shook. "Hi."

"You okay?"

"Still your first question."

"Yeah."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm very emotional, but physically intact."

His mouth twitched.

Then you shifted Andie higher.

"Do you want her?"

Andrew looked at his daughter.

Andie had one fist tangled in your shirt and one hand still reaching for him, impatient now.

His face softened into something so open it hurt.

"Yeah," he whispered.

You passed her over carefully.

This was different from the newborn visit.

So different it almost knocked the breath out of you.

Then, she had been small enough to frighten him into stillness.

Now Andie came into his arms like she had places to be.

She grabbed his collar immediately.

Andrew froze.

Andie patted his chest with one hand.

"Dada."

He closed his eyes.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Andrew held her more securely, one arm under her, one hand spread over her back. His fingers looked huge against her little yellow romper.

"She's heavy," he whispered.

You laughed through tears.

"She is not heavy."

"She is."

"She weighs about as much as a bag of flour."

"She's heavier than last time."

"That was almost a year ago."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

Andrew looked down at her.

"I'm here," he said.

His voice was barely there.

Andie grabbed at the front of his prison shirt, then leaned forward and planted her open mouth against his collarbone.

You blinked.

Andrew looked panicked.

"What is she doing?"

"Kissing you. Or trying to eat you. Hard to tell at this age."

Andie lifted her head, drool shining on his shirt.

Andrew stared at the wet mark.

Then looked at her like she had blessed him.

You laughed so hard you cried harder.

"She drooled on you."

"I know."

"You can wipe it."

"No."

Of course not.

You stepped closer and brushed your fingers over Andie's hair.

Andrew's eyes flicked to your hand.

Then to your face.

The room shifted.

For one year, every contact visit had left both of you starved for touch. Every time you were allowed in the same room without glass, you became careful and greedy at once.

Today was no different.

His free hand reached for you.

You took it immediately.

Palm to palm.

His fingers closed around yours with a force that made your breath catch.

Not too tight.

Never too tight.

Just enough to say he had missed this too.

You stepped into his side, your shoulder brushing his arm, Andie between you.

Andrew looked down at your joined hands.

Then at you.

"You made it a year," he whispered.

Your eyes filled.

You shook your head.

"We did."

His expression cracked.

"Baby."

"We did," you said again, firmer this time. "She knows you because you showed up every way you could. Calls. Books. Visits. Photos. All of it."

Andrew looked down at Andie.

She was busy trying to remove the top button of his shirt.

"You did this too," you said.

His hand tightened around yours.

Andie looked up at him again.

"Dada."

His face folded.

"Oh, she knows how to weaponize that now," you said.

Andrew huffed a broken laugh.

"She can say it whenever she wants."

"She does."

"Good."

"She said it to a spoon yesterday."

His eyes lifted.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"She called a spoon Dada?"

"Briefly."

Andrew considered this.

Then looked at Andie.

"That's okay."

You stared at him. "That's okay?"

"She's learning."

"She called cutlery by your title."

"She's one."

"You are so biased."

"Yes."

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just yes.

You laughed and leaned into his shoulder.

His hand released yours only to wrap around your back, careful and warm. You turned your face into him for one second, just one, breathing him in as much as the room allowed.

Andrew pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Your eyes closed.

Andie slapped his cheek.

He opened his eyes.

You burst out laughing.

"She wants attention."

"She has it."

"She knows."

Andrew shifted Andie slightly and sat down, bringing her onto his lap. She immediately tried to twist around, interested in the table, the banner, your hair, the air, absolutely everything.

Andrew looked overwhelmed.

"She moves a lot."

"Yes."

"All the time?"

"Yes."

"How do you do anything?"

"I mostly don't."

He looked up, concerned.

"I'm kidding."

"Are you?"

"Partly."

He frowned.

You touched his cheek because you could.

Because you would use every second.

"I'm okay."

His eyes softened under your hand.

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

"But okay?"

"But okay."

Andie reached for your hand on his face and grabbed your fingers.

For a second, the three of you were tangled together.

Your hand on Andrew's cheek.

Andie's hand around your fingers.

Andrew's hand on Andie's back.

A ridiculous knot of love in a beige room.

Andrew looked at it.

His throat moved.

You did not say anything.

Some moments did not need help.

The guard outside shifted.

Reality, reminding you it existed.

You ignored it.

"Do you want the cupcake?" you asked.

Andrew looked immediately suspicious.

"For her?"

"For her birthday."

"She can eat cake?"

"She can eat a tiny bit of cupcake."

"Sugar?"

"Oh no. Not sugar on her birthday."

Andrew gave you a look.

You laughed. "Baby, she will survive frosting."

"What if she chokes?"

"She's supervised."

"What if—"

"Andrew."

His mouth shut.

You smiled fondly.

"Would you like to give your daughter her first birthday cupcake or would you like to continue arguing with me about sugar?"

He looked down at Andie.

Andie slapped the table.

"Da!"

He exhaled.

"Cupcake."

"Good choice."

You opened the little container.

The cupcake was tiny.

Yellow frosting.

One small white candle tucked separately because fire was absolutely not allowed in a prison contact room, which you had expected and honestly did not mind.

Deran had somehow found tiny duck sprinkles.

You stared at them.

"Oh, Deran."

Andrew leaned forward. "What?"

"Duck sprinkles."

His mouth softened.

"And he carried it?"

"Like it was evidence."

Andrew looked toward the door.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

You placed the cupcake on the table in front of Andie, who was now sitting on Andrew's lap with both his arms forming a protective barrier around her.

She stared at it.

Suspicious.

Andrew stared too.

Also suspicious.

You looked between them and snorted.

"She has your exact cake suspicion face."

"I don't have a cake suspicion face."

"You do now."

Andie reached one finger toward the frosting.

Stopped.

Looked at you.

You nodded. "Go on."

She poked the frosting.

Then looked at her finger.

Andrew leaned in like he was watching a bomb.

"She okay?"

"She has frosting on one finger."

"She's thinking."

"She is."

Andie put her finger in her mouth.

Her eyes widened.

You grinned.

Andrew stopped breathing.

Andie looked at the cupcake again.

Then slammed her whole hand into it.

You laughed.

"There we go."

Andrew's mouth parted in horror. "Oh."

"She's supposed to make a mess."

"She's destroying it."

"It's a smash cake."

"It's a cupcake."

"Smash cupcake."

"That sounds made up."

"It is made up. It's still happening."

Andie lifted her frosting-covered hand.

Before either of you could stop her, she planted it directly on Andrew's chest.

Yellow frosting smeared across his prison shirt.

The room went still.

You clapped a hand over your mouth.

Andie looked delighted.

Andrew looked down at the mark.

A tiny, messy, yellow handprint.

Right over his heart.

Your eyes filled instantly.

"Oh," you whispered.

Andrew did not move.

He just stared at it.

"Andie," you murmured, laughing and crying at once. "That was very dramatic."

Andrew's hand hovered over the frosting mark.

Not touching.

Not wiping.

Just hovering.

You swallowed hard.

"You can wipe it," you said softly.

His eyes lifted to yours.

"No."

Of course.

Your face crumpled.

He looked down at Andie.

She had frosting on her wrist now. On her mouth. Somehow near one eyebrow.

"Dada," she said happily.

Andrew closed his eyes.

For a second, he looked like he was praying.

When he opened them, they were wet.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I'm here."

You did not survive that.

You cried quietly while Andie continued destroying the cupcake with astonishing focus.

Andrew watched every movement like it mattered.

Because it did.

The way she poked the frosting.

The way she offered him a wet, crushed handful and then changed her mind before he could pretend to eat it.

The way she clapped once, smearing cake between her palms.

The way she babbled, "Da-da-da," like she was narrating the occasion.

Andrew laughed.

Really laughed.

Small and rough and unused, but real.

You stared at him.

He saw.

"What?"

"You laughed."

"She put cake on my shirt."

"Frosting."

"Frosting."

"You're happy."

His face softened.

"Yeah."

The simplicity of it made your throat close.

You reached over and took his hand again.

His fingers folded around yours.

For a few minutes, you let Andie have the cupcake while you and Andrew stayed pressed close enough that your knees touched. His thumb moved over your knuckles. Your shoulder leaned into his. Every small point of contact felt like a stolen thing.

Eventually Andie got tired of the cupcake and more interested in the paper banner.

Andrew held her up so she could see it.

"Happy birthday," he said.

His voice was quiet.

Andie looked at the banner.

Then at him.

"Da."

"Yes," he said. "Dada."

You wiped frosting from Andie's chin with a cloth.

"She had your birthday recording this morning," you said.

Andrew glanced at you. "Yeah?"

"She smiled at the part where you said happy birthday."

He looked down quickly.

You squeezed his hand.

"She did."

"I recorded it three times."

"I know."

"How?"

"You sounded hoarse by the end."

His mouth twitched.

"The first one was bad."

"I doubt that."

"I said happy birthday too fast."

"She is one. She does not have pacing critiques."

"I did."

"You always do."

He looked at Andie.

"I wanted it right."

Your face softened.

"It was."

The guard knocked lightly.

"Fifteen minutes."

The words dropped into the room like a stone.

Andrew's hand tightened around yours.

Andie, oblivious and sticky, reached for his face.

He leaned down automatically.

She patted his cheek with a frosting-smudged hand.

A faint yellow streak appeared along his jaw.

You laughed through tears.

"She got you again."

Andrew did not wipe that either.

"She can."

"She can?"

"She can do whatever she wants."

"You are going to be impossible."

"Yes."

"At least admit it."

"I did."

You smiled at him through wet eyes.

"She's going to run circles around you."

"Good."

"You say that now."

"I'll say it later."

Andie grabbed his nose.

He winced slightly but let her.

"Gentle," you told her.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

"She's okay."

"She needs to learn gentle."

"She's one."

"You are no help."

"She's one," he repeated, softer.

There it was.

The weight under the sweetness.

One.

A whole year.

His daughter had lived a full year outside your body, and Andrew had counted it through visits and recordings and phone calls and photos held carefully by prison light.

You touched his arm.

"She's one."

His eyes stayed on Andie.

"I missed a lot."

You took a breath.

You had known it might come.

Not as a spiral.

Not as self-punishment.

Just truth.

"Yes," you said softly.

His jaw worked.

"And you were there for a lot."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Not the same."

"No," you said. "Not the same."

You would not lie to him.

You loved him too much for that.

"But it counted."

Andrew looked down at the frosting on his shirt.

At Andie's little handprint over his heart.

At his daughter chewing on the edge of a napkin you immediately removed from her mouth.

He huffed softly.

You smiled.

"It counted," you said again.

His eyes went wet.

"Yeah."

This time, it sounded like belief.

The guard moved outside.

Ten minutes.

You leaned forward and kissed Andrew.

He froze for only half a second before kissing you back.

Still careful.

Always careful.

But less disbelieving than the first contact visit.

His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye.

Andie made an outraged sound between you.

You pulled back, laughing.

"Sorry. Birthday girl objects."

Andrew smiled at her.

Actually smiled.

A tiny, open thing.

"Sorry."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

"I know," he said. "You're in charge."

"She really is."

He looked at you.

"You okay?"

You laughed softly. "Yes."

"With this?"

Your smile faded into something tender.

"With what?"

"With me having this today."

Your heart cracked.

"Oh, Andrew."

His eyes flicked down.

You touched his jaw, thumb brushing near the frosting streak Andie had left.

"I wanted you to have this."

His throat moved.

"I have her every day," you said. "The mornings. The nights. The messes. The firsts. The tantrums. The way she throws spoons like she's being paid. I get so much."

His face tightened.

"So when there is a way for you to have a piece too," you whispered, "I want you to have it. I want you to have all of it."

Andrew's eyes shone.

"I don't want to take from you."

"You're not."

"I know, but—"

"You're her dad," you said. "Loving her isn't taking from me."

He looked at Andie.

Then at your hand on his jaw.

The words landed slowly.

Carefully.

Like his body was still learning that love could multiply instead of divide.

Andie yawned suddenly.

A huge, dramatic yawn that made both of you stop.

"She's tired," you said.

Andrew's face shifted immediately into concern.

"She needs sleep."

"She can survive five more minutes."

"She's rubbing her eye."

"I know."

"She does that when she's tired?"

"Yes."

He watched closely, memorizing that.

Of course he did.

"Anything else?"

"What?"

"When she's tired."

You smiled despite the ache.

"She gets clingy. She makes this little humming sound. She hates being put down even though she clearly wants to sleep."

"Like you."

"Excuse me?"

"You get mean when you're tired."

"I gave birth to your child and organized a prison birthday cupcake. Choose your words."

His mouth twitched.

"You get quiet when you're tired," he corrected.

"Better."

"And mean."

"Andrew."

He laughed again.

You loved him so much in that moment it made you almost dizzy.

Five minutes.

The guard announced it softly this time.

Maybe because of the baby.

Maybe because even he had a heart somewhere under the uniform.

Andrew looked down at Andie.

His face changed.

The letting go was coming.

It was always coming.

No amount of frosting or laughter or birthday banners could stop it.

Andie rested against his chest now, sleepy, one sticky hand curled against the mark she had left on his shirt.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

You watched him breathe her in.

"Baby," you whispered.

His eyes closed.

"I know."

You moved closer.

"I'll take her."

His arms tightened for one second.

Only one.

Then loosened.

He handed Andie back with the kind of care that made your chest ache.

She fussed immediately.

Reached for him.

"Dada."

Andrew's face crumpled.

You held her close, tears filling your eyes again.

"I know," you whispered to her. "I know."

Andie reached harder.

"Dada!"

Andrew stood.

His hands curled once at his sides, like letting her cry for him was worse than anything he had prepared for.

You stepped close, shifting Andie between you.

"Touch her," you whispered.

He did.

One hand to her back.

One finger to her tiny frosting-sticky hand.

Andie grabbed it.

Hard.

Andrew bent his head.

"She knows you," you said.

His eyes closed.

"She'll know you next time too."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

And he did.

That was the difference.

He knew.

Not perfectly. Not without pain. But enough.

Andie tugged his finger.

"Dada," she said again, softer now.

Andrew swallowed hard.

"I love you," he whispered.

She blinked at him.

"I love you," he said again.

You were crying openly now.

He looked at you.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

He leaned forward and kissed you once more.

Brief.

Warm.

Desperate around the edges.

Then he kissed Andie's forehead.

She grabbed at his chin.

He smiled through tears.

"Happy birthday, baby girl."

The guard opened the door.

Time.

You stepped back.

Andrew's hand slipped from Andie's grip.

She made a noise that nearly broke all three of you.

You bounced her gently, trying to soothe her while your own face fell apart.

At the doorway, you turned back.

Andrew stood in the middle of the beige room with yellow frosting on his shirt, a smear on his jaw, and tears on his face.

The birthday banner hung crooked behind him.

One hour.

One cupcake.

One whole year.

You lifted Andie's hand.

She did not wave.

She was too busy looking at him.

"Da," she said.

Andrew covered his mouth.

Then the door closed.

Deran was waiting in the hall.

Craig too.

Both of them stood when they saw you.

Their eyes went immediately to Andie.

Then to your face.

Then to the closed door behind you.

"How bad?" Craig asked.

You laughed through tears.

"Destroyed."

Deran looked down at Andie. "Him or you?"

"Yes."

Craig stepped closer, reaching out to wipe a bit of frosting from Andie's wrist with a wipe he had somehow already prepared.

"She okay?"

"She's tired."

"She cried?"

"At the end."

Craig's face tightened.

Deran looked away.

"She reached for him," you said.

Neither of them spoke.

Andie sniffled against your shoulder, thumb creeping toward her mouth.

Deran cleared his throat.

"He got to hold her?"

You nodded.

"And she said Dada to his face."

Craig closed his eyes briefly.

Deran rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

You smiled through wet cheeks.

"She put frosting on him."

Deran blinked.

"On purpose?"

"She's one."

"So yes."

You laughed.

Craig looked toward the door, then back at you.

"He wipe it?"

"No."

Craig's mouth trembled.

Deran turned toward the exit.

"Car," he said roughly.

"You're crying again," you said.

"I am walking."

"Emotionally."

"I am walking emotionally."

You laughed, then kissed Andie's hair.

"Let's go home, birthday girl."

Andrew did not wipe the frosting off until he had to.

Not when they walked him back.

Not when another man looked at the smear on his shirt and raised an eyebrow.

Not when the guard said, "You got something there."

Andrew looked down at the tiny yellow handprint over his heart.

"I know."

The guard did not tell him again.

Later, when he had no choice, he cleaned the shirt carefully.

But before he did, he pressed two fingers to the mark.

Just once.

A handprint.

His daughter's handprint.

Andie had turned one.

She had reached for him.

She had said Dada to his face.

She had laughed at cake and grabbed his nose and smeared frosting on him like she knew exactly where to leave the proof.

Andrew sat on the edge of his bunk that night with the birthday photo you had managed to get printed before the visit tucked between his hands.

In the picture, Andie sat on his lap, frosting on her mouth, one hand pressed to his chest. You were beside him, leaning close, smiling through tears. His own face was turned toward Andie, ruined and soft and unguarded.

He barely recognized himself.

Maybe that was good.

Maybe fathers were supposed to become unrecognizable in certain ways.

He looked at the wall of photos.

Scan.

Gender note.

Nursery.

Contact visit.

Smile.

Glass visit.

And now this.

One year.

One whole year.

A year ago, he had heard his daughter's heartbeat through a prison phone.

Now she had said his name to his face with cake on her hands.

Andrew touched the edge of the birthday photo.

One year had passed without him coming home.

But not one year had passed without him being her father.

He knew that now.

Not all the time.

Not perfectly.

But tonight, he knew.

Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody lay down with his daughter's voice in his head and the memory of yellow frosting over his heart.

Dada.

Dada.

Dada.

And for once, the word did not feel like something he had to earn.

It felt like something she had already given him.

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Down time at the Pitt came so rarely, it was almost like a unicorn. Talked about, a few documented "sightings" of said mythical creature, but nothing concrete to suggest it existed.

So the minute Robby pulls you to the side and offers you a chance to breathe, you almost choke on your own saliva. A break? Now? Was he having you on?

"Got a few."

"Feel like I need to be pinched."

"Could do, but it'd hurt."

"Well... at least then I'd know I wasn't dreaming."

He nods, that smile you loved so much tugging at his lips until the soft creases in his brow bunch together. Another rare sight that you would choose over a breather any day.

"Listen... about the other week-"

You raise a hand, watching his lashes flutter as he stutters into a pause.

"Wasn't coercion. Wasn't you using your chief attending status either. Was mutual and between two consenting adults."

"I'm still your superior. Not just here, but in age too."

That had your attention. You bite your lip to stifle the giggle that bubbled in your throat before ever so carefully shifting yourself closer. You could feel the heat he radiated, and you were sure he could feel yours too as his Adam's apple visibly bobbed with a thick swallow.

"And what, pray tell, is wrong with me liking men old enough to be my dad?"

"I-... I never said there was but-"

"Shh. Michael Robinavitch, you little kink shamer."

"Now, see, I don't know whether to kiss you or have you over my knee."

The dappled glint of the morning rays trickled through the small gaps of your blinds just enough to irritate your lash-line and cause you to stir from what was usually a deep, uninterrupted sleep unless an alarm was strumming it's godawful tune.

You wince, nose scrunching, and allow a hand to cup the sweat-slicked skin of your forehead in an attempt to steady the dizzying motion that makes your sight blur. Wow, those drinks you'd thrown back had really knocked you on your arse, and now you were reaping the consequences of a night a young teenage you would've been proud of.

"... morning."

the sound of a gruff voice you knew all too well had you almost whimpering out loud, spine stiffening almost impossibly straight until you felt the burn of barely awake muscles contracting under your skin.

"Oh, um, morning."

You mumble back, and Jack smiled slightly. That all too familiar uneven cock of his lips that had your pussy fluttering and your heart doing flips like an overachieving gymnast.

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.

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