Initially, when you had told Terzo that you were pregnant, he hadn’t believed you. You had always been a trickster when it came to him, one-upping him with pranks and jokes to try to make his heart race like he did yours. He had laughed, told you to give it up, but when you'd frowned at him, your fists clenched, he knew you were serious, and for a moment, he firmly believed he was screwed.

He was an asshole at times, but he still tried to be a gentleman. One month had passed since your little announcement when he proposed to you—he believed that, although it wasn’t a necessity, having a child within wedlock would be better for their wellbeing—and after the passage of one more month, he had married you. The rushed, hasty wedding was still beautiful, and from there, he spared no expense making sure the little one would have their own room close to yours and his own. (Preferably so that if the child had siblings in the future, they wouldn’t be barging into their room, as he had to experience from his younger brother, Copia, as a child.)

So much had been happening in the previous months that he’d almost forgotten what had spurred the events in the first place: you were pregnant, and eight months and two weeks later, you were having the baby, and slightly prematurely.

He was out when he got the call, and had forced someone else to drive him considering he was literally trembling. You hadn't been due for another three weeks, but of course, waiting wasn’t your style. Apparently not your baby’s either. He had rushed upstairs, nearly rivaling the speed of light. Only, he was too late—no, you weren’t dead,, but the baby had already come after his hour-long drive there.

You’d have been staring fit to kill him, had your eyes not been downturned, fixed on the bundle in your arms. The swaddling blanket pulled up to cover their downy cheek, but he could already feel his heart melting. Rushing over, he was at your side in seconds, and looking down, he could only muster two words: “...They’re perfect.”