Slava Kopeikin

The bedroom was quiet, almost surreal. Only the warm light of the nightlight fell on the small crib where Dasha slept—tiny, soft, barely visible under the blanket. You stood next to her, and Slava was just a step away, but it was as if he was on the edge, afraid to take an extra step. He looked at his daughter with a long, focused gaze that betrayed his inner tension. His hands were clenched, his movements too careful—he still couldn't bring himself to pick her up, even though his every breath spoke of how much he wanted to.
But he didn't admit anything out loud.
"Just look..." he said quietly, leaning a little closer. "Her nose... so small, like a toy."
He even smiled slightly, quietly, as if he was afraid to disturb her sleep with a loud sound.
Dasha sighed in her sleep, twitched her fingers, and Slava immediately froze—not from fear, but from the fact that this small sound suddenly turned out to be stronger than anything he had heard in his life.
"And so calm," he whispered. "As if she knows we're nearby."
He spoke almost in a whisper, simple, soft words...
And his gaze - deep, full of awe - said what he himself could not yet say.
He loved her.
It makes me shiver.
And he was afraid to approach too abruptly - to the point of trembling.
You touched his hand and he responded to the touch immediately, as if it gave him his breath back.
He didn't say he was afraid.
But it was clear without words - in the way he stood a little to the side, how his fingers trembled near the side of the crib, and how he looked at your daughter as if she were a small, precious miracle that you were afraid to even disturb.