Mismatched Rhythms and Lullabies

Katsuki's POV

Katsuki gazed down at Eri, the wails finally tapering off to fitful sobs. The apartment was silent now, save for the quiet hitch of her breath. He studied her—the little tufts of white hair so like her mother's, and those crimson eyes, a striking inheritance from him. But even as he gently stroked her back, he felt the chasm of their newness to each other.

"You gotta give me some hints here, Eri," he murmured, his voice tinged with the strain of uncertainty. "I'm trying all the right moves, aren't I?"

He rocked her gently, an action he'd read about in the pile of parenting books that now cluttered the coffee table. Books that seemed to mock him with their promises of bonding secrets and fail-proof soothing techniques. Every cry felt like a testament to his inexperience, to the suddenness of fatherhood thrust upon him.

"I'm all you've got," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "And I know that's... well, it's gotta be scary, huh? Just as scary as it is for me."

Eri's cries rose again, a crescendo that clawed at his composure. Katsuki bounced her slightly, pacing in a path worn into the carpet over the past few days, her tiny fingers clutching at his shirt.

"It's just... you came out of nowhere, you know? All little with a set of lungs on you... but none of the instructions." He attempted a weak chuckle that dissolved into a sigh. "I thought I'd be better at this."

Eri's sobs punctuated the silence between his attempts at jokes. It was like she knew he was fumbling, that every attempt to comfort her was just another misstep in their awkward dance.

"The doctors say you're perfect, that we just need time," Katsuki continued, his words more for himself now. "But what if time isn't enough?"

He settled back onto the couch; the fight draining from him as he held her close, her cries slowly giving way to the ragged breathing of sleep. He closed his eyes, his senses filled with the smell of her baby shampoo, the softness of her hair against his skin, and the shared warmth that seemed to be the only thing he was getting right.

Katsuki whispered into the stillness, his words more of a vow, "We'll get through this together, Eri. I promise."

As he rhythmically patted her back, the weight of her tiny form against his chest was a grounding force against the pull of exhaustion. Memories flickered behind his heavy eyelids—echoes of a time filled with laughter and debates under the golden hues of a college sunset, where the future was a distant thought, and fatherhood was an abstract concept.

A former professor's voice broke through the haze of fatigue, his words once floating in the realm of philosophy now anchored in reality: "There's more to life than the roles we're expected to play." Katsuki, with his daughter in his arms, felt the gravity of those words press against him.

The apartment was quiet now, the stillness so profound it felt like a living thing. Eri's breathing softened, a delicate rhythm that became Katsuki's entire world. Time seemed irrelevant, the clock's luminescent digits marking its passage without meaning. He feared even the slightest movement, worried it might shatter the fragile peace they'd found.

He lingered in the limbo between sleep and consciousness, every muscle rigid, every sense heightened to Eri's presence. Her breath, her warmth, the minute movements of her hands—each a thread holding him to vigilance.

As the first hints of dawn touched the room, transforming shadows into shapes, the doorbell's chime pierced the silence. Katsuki's eyes flew open, his mind grappling with reality. The disturbance drew a small whimper from Eri, her little body tensing. He looked down into her crimson eyes, mirroring his own, now clouded with the onset of fear.