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Jack stood in the doorway of the nursery with the baby carrier already strapped to his chest. Their daughter was tucked against him, Anika asleep with one tiny fist curled against his shirt and her dark curls peeking over the edge of the camo fabric. She was only eight weeks old and still had that new-baby smell he was addicted to. Samira leaned against the doorframe in one of his old shirts, arms crossed over her chest, watching him with raised eyebrows.
“You’re actually taking her to the meeting?”
“They sent a noise complaint,” Jack said, voice flat. “About our two month old crying at three in the morning. Like that’s not what babies do.”
Samira’s mouth twitched, “You could’ve just emailed them again.”
“I did. Three times. They ignored it,” he adjusted the strap on the carrier, careful not to wake the baby. “So now they get to deal with me in person. And her.”
“Jack.”
“What?” He looked up, completely unbothered. “She’s quiet right now. If she starts crying during the meeting, that’s on them for scheduling it during her usual fussy window. And you also need sleep, don’t think I didn’t hear you get up three times last night.”
Samira stared at him for a second, then let out a short laugh and shook her head, “She was hungry and you’re unhinged.”
“I’m efficient,” he stepped closer and kissed her, soft and quick. “Go back to bed. You barely slept last night. I’ve got this.”
She reached up and brushed her fingers over the baby’s dark hair, then over Jack’s cheek, “Don’t get arrested.”
“She’d have the cutest mugshot.”
“Jack.”
“Well be good. Promise.”
-
The neighborhood clubhouse was just as stuffy as always when Jack walked in with the baby carrier strapped to his chest and the binder tucked under one arm like usual. A few heads turned, someone actually gasped.
He didn’t care.
Jack took his usual seat in the front row, one hand resting protectively over the baby’s back. She stayed asleep, tiny breaths warm against his shirt.
When the president, fucking Portia Greene, finally got to “Property Concerns — 1427 Maple Grove Lane” Jack stood.
He didn’t even wait for them to finish the sentence before he walked to the front, set the binder down, and looked at each board member one by one while his daughter slept peacefully against his chest.
“You sent my wife a noise violation,” he said, voice calm and dangerously quiet. “For our infant crying. At night. In our own home.”
The president shifted in her seat, “Well, we received multiple complaints from neighbors about—”
Jack cut her off.
“She’s eight weeks old. She cries when she’s hungry. She cries when she’s tired. She cries when she has gas. That’s what babies do.” He tapped two fingers against the carrier. “You want to fine us for that? Fine. But you’re going to sit here and listen to every single piece of evidence I brought about the selective enforcement happening in this neighborhood while my daughter sleeps on my chest. And if she wakes up and starts crying, you’re all going to sit through it. Because apparently that’s the only language some of you understand.”
He opened the binder and started pulling out the printed photos again.
The room was dead silent.
Jack kept going, voice steady, handing out stacks of evidence like he was in the trauma bay running a code.
Portia’s son running down the street with his friends and multiple rolls of toilet paper at 12:37 AM. Mrs. Peterson ignoring his newly minted “Please pick up after your pets!” sign on his lawn. The treasurer and his wife getting into… interesting activities in broad daylight. Carol Wright’s incorrectly colored mailbox. Mr. Thatcher’s fake grass that’s 7/8ths of an inch too tall.
Halfway through, the baby stirred.
A soft, sleepy whimper came from the carrier.
Jack didn’t miss a beat. He kept talking, one hand gently rubbing the baby’s back in slow circles while he passed out the next set of photos with the other. The whimper turned into a small cry.
He kept going.
By the time Anika was properly fussing — not screaming, just that furious newborn wail from being ignored — Jack had finished handing out every piece of evidence. He looked up at the board, completely unfazed, still patting the baby’s back.
“Listen this is just the stuff that isn’t unsavory,” Jack shrugged, swaying as his hand rubbed against Anika’s back. “I have plenty more that would probably destroy a few families and marriages.”
The board sat silent.
“Any questions?” he asked.
No one said a word.
Portia cleared her throat, looking anywhere but at the carrier, “We’ll… review everything and get back to you.”
Jack nodded once.
“Appreciate it.”
He turned and walked back to his seat, still gently bouncing Anika against his chest. She quieted down after a minute, settling back into sleep like nothing had happened.
-
Samira was waiting on the couch when he got home, still in her pajamas. She took one look at the carrier and the slightly smug set of his shoulders and smiled.
“How’d it go?”
Jack unclipped the carrier and carefully lifted their daughter out, handing her over to Samira who immediately moved her shirt to the side so Anika could latch onto her breast like she’d been starved for days and not an hour and a half.
“They’re going to review it,” Jack said.
Samira hummed as she moved her gaze from Anika’s sleepy nursing to Jack who was now unclipping his prosthetic, “Did she cry?”
“A little.” Jack’s mouth curved, small and satisfied as he settled in next to her. “They didn’t like it.”
Samira laughed quietly and leaned her head against his shoulder, careful not to disturb the baby.
“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” Jack said, pressing a kiss to the top of their daughter’s head before moving to press one to Samira’s as well.. “But they’re not sending any more bullshit notices about our kid.”
He looked down at Anika, her tiny fists curled into Samira’s shirt as she loudly suckled, then at Samira, and something in his chest went soft and fierce at the same time.
“Next time they try something,” he said quietly, “I’m bringing her again.”
Samira just smiled against his shoulder.
“God help them.”