Request pls!
Housewife reader struggling physical with postpartum, the constant cries from the newborn the breastfeeding lack of sleep and the discomfort from birth. :(
you ask, you shall receive :) (this is the earlier days when milo was just a newborn)
I don’t feel like myself anymore.
houswife!reader x bluecollar!rafe
WARNINGS: postpartum, exhaustion, crying, breastfeeding struggles, body discomfort, sleep deprivation, emotional vulnerability, soft comfort
You hadn’t slept in almost two days.
The house was quiet except for Milo’s soft, hiccupy cries. The kind that weren’t loud enough to panic over but never really stopped. You were in the rocking chair, again. Shirt half unbuttoned, nursing bra down, blanket over one shoulder, eyes glassy from staring at nothing.
Your body still hurt. Not in the sharp, sudden way like the first few days. But in that slow, deep, dull ache that never quite left. Like your bones hadn’t caught up with everything yet.
Your chest was sore. Your back was tight. Your nipples felt raw. Milo kept unlatching and crying. Then latching wrong. Then crying again.
You were so tired.
You didn’t hear the front door open.
You didn’t hear Rafe come in, or kick off his boots, or whisper a “hey baby” like he usually did.
But you felt him stop in the doorway.
And when you didn’t say anything — didn’t even turn your head — he knew.
“Milo asleep?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. “No.”
You didn’t mean for your voice to sound so flat. But you didn’t have the energy to fix it.
He crossed the room, crouched beside the chair. You saw the frown on his face before you saw the sweat on his shirt.
You whispered, “He’s not latching right again.”
Rafe glanced at the baby in your arms, then back at you.
“You want me to try?”
You shook your head quickly — too quickly. “He wants me. It’s always me. I’m all he wants.” You say, almost frustratedly.
There was silence.
Then your voice cracked: “I haven’t showered in three days. I haven’t brushed my hair. I bled through the sheets last night and I didn’t even notice.”
Rafe’s eyes softened. “Baby—”
You looked at him then. Really looked. And it all tumbled out.
“I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t feel pretty. I don’t even feel like a person. Just a machine that feeds and rocks and cries.”
He reached for your hand, but you pulled back.
“I love him,” you whispered, tears slipping out. “God, I love him. But I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”
Rafe stayed quiet, then stood slowly. You thought he was going to walk away — maybe to go shower or fix dinner — but instead, he leaned down and carefully lifted Milo from your arms. Held him against his chest like he’d done it a hundred times.
“C’mere,” he said softly, nudging your knees apart with his hips, settling in the chair with you in his lap. One arm around the baby. One around you.
You cried into his shirt, finally.
“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing,” he murmured into your hair. “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby.”
He rocked gently, the three of you pressed together.
“I’ll take the next one,” he whispered. “You just rest, alright? Let me hold both of you a while.”
And for the first time in hours — in days — you let go.
You woke up to the sound of gentle humming. A low, off-tune version of something familiar. The house was still dim — early morning — but the sun was just beginning to warm the curtains.
You blinked.
You were… in bed.
You didn’t remember getting there.
Your chest was tender, but the aching throb had dulled. The soreness was background noise now. And for the first time in what felt like a century, your head wasn’t pounding. You realized, slowly: I slept. Not a nap. Not a half-hour twitchy doze. Real sleep.
You sat up fast — panicked. “Milo—”
“He’s fine,” a voice said gently from down the hall.
You followed it.
And what you saw in the kitchen made your throat close up.
Rafe — shirtless, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes — holding Milo to his chest with one arm, bottle in the other hand, barefoot, swaying gently while humming some nonsense melody.
You stopped in the doorway.
He looked up and grinned. “Well, hey there, Sleeping Beauty.”
You blinked, still caught in that thick fog of just-woke-up emotion.
“I… you fed him?”
“Yep. You slept through the whole bottle.”
You stepped closer, slowly. “Was he okay?”
“Didn’t cry once,” he said. “Kinda scary, honestly. Thought maybe I was magic.”
You snorted. “You’re not.”
“Let me have this.”
You slid into his arms, resting your forehead against Milo’s soft head.
“You’re really good at this,” you whispered.
Rafe looked down at you — sweat and all, tired as hell — and kissed the top of your head.
“So are you, mama.”
