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It’s 3:41 AM, and Alex is unraveling.
He’s always been able to hold it together. Alex Claremont-Diaz, dedicated lawyer, loving husband, the man who takes on challenges headfirst and comes out stronger on the other side. None of his previous battles have prepared him for this—trying to console his son, who’s screaming in pain, while the rest of the world remains deafeningly silent.
Alex paces the floor of the nursery, Mateo’s little body squirming in his arms, face red and twisted with tears. Teething. The pediatrician had warned them it was going to be rough, but Alex wasn’t prepared for this level of helplessness. Every cry cuts through him like a knife, every tiny whimper feels like his heart is being torn in two.
He’s tried everything —literally every solution thrown his way—and none of it seems to be working. He’d started with the basics. The pediatrician recommended cold teething rings, the kind you pop in the fridge until they’re just the right level of chill. Alex immediately bought five different ones, all shapes and sizes, but the second they touched his son’s gums, he’d screeched like they were made of fire instead of ice.
There were the over-the-counter remedies: the baby-safe gels, teething tablets, and that weird amber teething necklace that someone swore by on a parenting blog. Alex tried them all, following the instructions to the letter, but Mateo had only spit out the tablets and thrown the necklace across the room like it was a personal offense.
So, they'd moved on to family secrets, the ones passed down in whispers from abuelitas in kitchens filled with the scent of simmering caldo de pollo. His tia called, concerned, after hearing about the sleepless nights from Oscar, and rattled off a list of traditional remedies she swore had worked on all the Diaz children.
“ Mira, mijo, ” she’d said, her voice warm but insistent. “A clean finger, rub a little tequila on his gums. Nomás tantito, just a little. It’ll help numb the pain.”
At the time he’d laughed at the idea of giving their son tequila—Henry would have a heart attack—but in the middle of the night, when the crying hadn’t stopped for hours, Alex had seriously considered it. In the end, he’d settled for a cold, wet washcloth, like his mother had recommended, letting their son gnaw on the soft fabric while Alex whispered comforting words in Spanish. That had worked— for about five minutes.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Alex whispers, voice hoarse from hours of comforting. He presses a kiss to his son’s damp forehead, feeling his tiny hands clutch at his shirt. “I’ve got you, amorcito. I’ve got you. Please, please just stop crying.”
But the crying doesn’t stop. If anything, it’s louder, sharper, like a million little needles burrowing into Alex’s chest. His son’s gums are swollen, bright pink, and Alex would give anything— anything —to take the pain away.
But all he can do is hold him.
Alex promised himself he wouldn’t wake Henry tonight. Henry, who has always struggled with sleep, even long before their son was born. Nights were never easy for him, not with the constant pressure of the world on his shoulders. Alex made it his mission to let him rest, slipping out of bed the second he heard a cry, determined to handle the late-night chaos alone.
But tonight is different. Tonight, Mateo is inconsolable and Alex can feel his own edges fraying. His body is heavy, eyes burning from lack of sleep and heart aching from watching his baby suffer. He presses his lips to his son’s temple again, but the tears keep coming—his and Mateo’s.
It feels like failure, like some fundamental inadequacy that he can’t get his son to stop crying, that he can’t protect him from this.
At one point, in the midst of sheer desperation and exhaustion, Alex sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, pulling their baby close to his chest. He rocks him gently, humming a broken lullaby— Cielito lindo —the only song his mind can conjure up in the haze. It’s something his dad used to sing to him when he was small, and now the familiar melody spills from his lips without thought.
"Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones...""
His voice shakes, cracking over the words as he hums through his own tears. He can’t remember the last time he cried like this, can’t remember the last time he felt this utterly worn down. But here he is, on the floor of their son’s nursery, tears streaming down his face as he rocks his baby boy in his arms.
" Ese lunar que tienes, Cielito lindo, junto a la boca, no se lo des a nadie, ..."
By the third rendition Mateo’s cries have softened to pitiful whimpers, tiny hands grasping at Alex’s shoulder, his little body hiccuping in his grasp. But still, the pain is there. Alex can feel it like it’s his own.
He presses his forehead to his son’s, closing his eyes tightly against the wave of emotion crashing over him. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry I can’t make this better,” he whispers. “I’m trying. I swear to God, I’m trying.”
And that’s when Henry finds them.
Alex doesn’t even notice at first, so wrapped up in his own spiral of grief and frustration, singing softly through the tears. But then there’s a soft rustle at the doorway, and he looks up, blinking through his tears, to find Henry standing there. His face is shadowed by the dim light from the hallway, but there’s no mistaking the look in his eyes—the quiet devastation of seeing Alex like this, breaking apart in the middle of the night.
Henry crosses the room in three quick strides, sinking to the floor beside him without a word. His hand reaches out to cup the back of Alex’s neck, fingers curling gently into his hair, grounding him.
“Love,” Henry murmurs, his voice tinged with sleep, with worry. “You should have woken me.”
“I—” Alex starts, but the words get stuck in his throat. He shakes his head, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “You need sleep. I didn’t want to—”
“Alex.” Henry’s voice is soft, but firm, and when Alex meets his eyes, there’s nothing but love there. Love and understanding and maybe even a little bit of heartbreak. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know, I just...” Alex trails off, looking down at their son, who is finally starting to settle, his eyes drooping as Alex rocks him slowly. “I just wanted to take care of you. Both of you.”
Henry lets out a quiet, pained breath and leans in, resting his forehead against Alex’s temple. “You do,” he whispers. “Every day, you do. But you don’t have to carry it all on your own, love. We’re in this together.”
For a long moment, they sit there in silence, their son nestled between them, the soft sound of his breathing filling the room. Alex feels Henry’s arm wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he lets himself lean into it, lets himself be held by the man who loves him most.
“I hate this,” Alex mutters, voice thick with exhaustion and emotion. “I hate seeing him in pain.”
“I know,” Henry says softly, his voice full of that quiet patience that Alex admires so much. “But he’s strong. Just like his dad.”
Alex huffs out a tired laugh, wiping at his eyes again. “Which one?”
“Both,” Henry replies, smiling gently as he brushes a thumb over the tear tracks on Alex’s cheek. “But you, my love, are allowed to break sometimes. You don’t have to be a rock all the time.”
Alex looks down at their son, his tiny hand curled around Alex’s finger, and feels the weight of Henry’s words settle over him. Maybe he doesn’t have to carry everything. Maybe it’s okay to let someone else shoulder the burden sometimes, to let himself be vulnerable, to let himself feel the weight of the love and the fear and the exhaustion all at once.
“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers, his voice barely audible. His eyes are still fixed on Mateo, whose cries have settled into soft, hiccuping breaths, but Alex’s own voice is thick with exhaustion and guilt. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”
“Shh,” Henry interrupts gently, his words soft against Alex’s temple as he presses a kiss there, lingering. “You don’t have to apologize. Not for this. Not ever.”
They both watch Mateo for a bit, the rise and fall of his tiny chest slowing into the deep rhythm of sleep. The room feels hushed now, like the whole world has dimmed to the soft glow of the nightlight in the corner. Alex’s arms are still cradling his little body, and even though his muscles are screaming from holding him for so long, he can’t bring himself to let go.
“I just—” Alex’s voice wavers for a second. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
Henry’s hand, warm and steady, traces slow circles on Alex’s back, grounding him. “Neither do I. But we’re doing it together, yeah?”
Alex exhales a shaky breath and finally lets himself lean back into Henry’s embrace. For a long moment, he just rests there, feeling the steady beat of Henry’s heart behind him, feeling the weight of Mateo in his arms. The exhaustion is still there, heavy and ever-present, but the sharp edges of it dull under Henry’s touch.
“I love you,” Alex murmurs, the words spilling out softly, like a confession, a lifeline, all at once. His head tips back against Henry’s shoulder as he says it, his eyes half-closed now.
Henry hums, his lips brushing the side of Alex’s head again. “I love you too. You and Mateo—” He takes a breath. “You mean everything to me. Both of you.”
Mateo lets out a soft sigh, a little puff of air, his tiny hand curled into a fist against Alex’s chest. The tension that had held Alex so tightly begins to unravel, and he lets himself melt into Henry’s support. With Mateo finally drifting off to sleep, the silence in the room feels sacred.
As his own eyelids grow heavier, Alex nestles deeper into Henry’s warmth. His body finally gives way to the wave of exhaustion that’s been threatening to pull him under all night, and just before he slips into sleep, he hears Henry’s voice again—soft, steady, full of love.
“You’re everything,” Henry whispers, and there’s a kiss against his hair, so faint Alex wonders if he’s imagining it. “You and Mateo. Everything.”
Alex's last thought, hazy with sleep, is that he never wants to be anywhere else but here. With them.