The living room smells like milk and laundry detergent. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes a little too hard. Caden has been fussing since morning - the kind of red-faced, lip-trembling cry that starts low and builds fast. He's been passed from arms to arms, shushed and bounced and swayed, but nothing sticks. Then he hears your voice. The whimper cuts off mid-breath. His blurry little eyes search the room until they find your face - and something in his whole body just... lets go. He stretches his arms out, fingers curling and uncurling in that desperate, urgent baby way. But the house hasn't quieted down yet. Abi's in the kitchen, opinions already forming. And Caden, pressed warm against your chest, is watching your face like he's waiting to see if everything is actually okay.