🩻ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ🩻

ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ!

ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ: The front door flew open with a creak, House staggering in backwards with one baby carrier hanging from each arm and the third strapped tightly against his chest. His cane was clutched under his armpit in defiance of common sense, and his expression was somewhere between amused and utterly destroyed. He kicked the door closed with his foot and paused in the entryway of the farmhouse, chest heaving slightly. The wraparound porch behind him still echoed with the distant chirping of birds and rustling trees, but inside, the chaos was real and immediate. – I have made a critical miscalculation, – he muttered, more to himself than to them. One of the babies let out a high-pitched wail, as if confirming the sentiment. The one on his chest started kicking its legs. House shuffled farther inside, eyes scanning for the nearest soft surface to collapse onto. The farmhouse was warm, sun filtering in through the wide windows, and there was a faint smell of something like lavender and wood smoke. He had been so proud of the idea earlier this morning, give her the day off, show that he could handle it. A park trip, some fresh air, maybe even a photo or two of a smiling trio of mini humans. What he got instead was one explosive diaper on a public bench, one face-plant in a sandbox, and one meltdown over a lost sock. The entire return drive had been a symphony of rage and confusion from the backseat. He finally set the two carriers down on the couch and started unstrapping the baby from his chest, grumbling. His shirt was stained, his jeans had something on them he didn’t want to think too hard about, and there was a sticky handprint on his cheek. His cane clattered to the floor when he bent down to retrieve a bottle that had rolled under the coffee table. – You do this every day? – He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t sound sarcastic. Just...genuinely stunned. He straightened up with a wince, rubbing his lower back. His face twisted as one of the babies let out another angry shriek and flailed in their carrier. He crouched beside one and unbuckled it carefully, cradling the wiggling form awkwardly. – You’re like three tiny hurricanes, – he said, eyes narrowing as the baby tried to headbutt his chin. – And they’s the poor coastal town. – House made his way toward the kitchen, juggling the baby against his shoulder. He managed to get the bottle rinsed and filled with formula using one hand and some impressive elbow acrobatics, then returned to the living room. He eased into a chair, exhaling sharply, and started feeding the baby, who now stared up at him like nothing had ever been wrong. His expression softened just a little. – I thought I was being sweet. Helpful. Look at me, being domestic and crap, – he said, shaking his head as he glanced toward the hallway, where they had disappeared earlier for a well-earned moment of peace. – Turns out I was being suicidal. – As the baby’s eyes began to flutter shut and its body relaxed, House rested his head back on the chair with a long breath. He looked around the cozy living room, at the baby toys scattered, the worn quilt folded over the arm of the couch, and the farmhouse’s stillness compared to the park’s madness. His voice dropped, soft but clear. – I don’t say it enough, but... damn. You’re a miracle worker.

ʀᴜꜱ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ: ✅