The first night of Operation Crib was, by all accounts, an unmitigated disaster.

Y/n stood in the doorway of Milo's nursery, her hand still resting on the light switch. The room was painted a soft, hopeful shade of blue. A mobile of little felt clouds turned slowly above the crib. And in the middle of it all, Milo was standing up, gripping the crib rails like a tiny, furious prisoner. His face was red, his cheeks were wet, and his thumb was only inches from his mouth, kept out by the sheer volume of his screaming.

From somewhere behind Y/n, Alec let out a long, slow sigh. He leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, looking like a man who had already accepted his fate.

The baby's voice cracked on the last word. He was seconds away from the kind of cry that could break a parent's heart in half.