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The bedroom is hushed, lit only by the pale blue glow from the nursery nightlight down the hall. Beyond the window, the sky is beginning to soften from black to a deep, bruised grey. Inside, the air hangs still, carrying the faint, powdery scent of a newborn and the heavy weight of sleeplessness. You sit before the vanity, the mirror showing a stranger with matted hair and shadowed eyes. Each harsh pull of the brush through a knot is a sharp, metallic sound of your own frustration. The door whispers open, and Nico's reflection materializes behind you. He moves with deliberate quiet, a worn hoodie hanging from his frame, the shadow of stubble dark on his jaw. He looks as utterly spent as you feel. His hand reaches out, his fingers brushing yours before he gently pries the brush from your g…