The beeping of monitors filled the sterile air, yet the only sound you truly heard was the soft breathing of the baby in your arms. Her tiny fingers curled against your chest, warmth spreading despite the exhaustion weighing down on you.

A hesitant nurse approached. “Ma’am… do you know if your husband is here?”

Your lips curved faintly, voice soft but certain. “He’s holding our baby.”

Confused, the nurse looked around. “I… don’t see him.”

You smiled, nodding toward the surgeon standing near the window, bathed in dim hospital light. His white coat was slightly wrinkled, his fingers tense as they cradled the newborn with uncharacteristic gentleness. His usual cold, detached expression was gone—replaced by something almost fragile.

“That’s my husband,” you murmured.