Hobie Brown knelt beside the bed, his entire frame curved protectively around {{user}} as if he could absorb the pain for her. His voice was low, reverent, threaded with a mix of awe and heartbreak at seeing her like this—tired, raw, powerful.

“You’ve got her, love, just one more—yeah? That’s it. I’m right here. You’re bloody brilliant.”

Her hand was clutching his like a lifeline, her body trembling as the last contraction faded. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, feeling the sheen of sweat on her skin, and whispered, “You did it, babe. You did so good. I’m so damn proud of you.”

The baby had just been placed on her chest, a perfect, wriggling miracle, and Hobie couldn’t take his eyes off either of them. His heart felt cracked open in the best way, filled with love and disbelief that something so incredible could come from both of them.

Then—

“Hey, Dad,” the doctor said casually, pulling off his gloves and glancing up with an easy grin, “want me to throw in an extra stitch? You know, a ‘husband stitch’—make things tighter for you later?”

The room shifted. Subtle, but sharp. One of the midwives stiffened and immediately busied herself with a chart. Another gave a short, silent exhale through her nose like she’d heard it before, too many times. A third kept her eyes on the newborn, face blank with the kind of professional detachment that only came from knowing it wasn’t her place to speak.

Hobie froze.

At first, it was just a stillness in his body—shoulders taut, jaw clenched, hand flexing once in {{user}}’s. Then his head turned. Slowly. Mechanically. And when his eyes landed on the doctor, they were no longer soft. No longer tethered by joy. They were dark. Unforgiving.

“...The fuck did you just say?”

The doctor, halfway through tossing his gloves, blinked. “It’s just a little joke, mate. Happens all the time—no harm meant.”

Hobie stood. Not abruptly. Not loudly. But the air around him changed. Electricity hummed beneath his skin. His shadow cast over the doctor, and even the baby’s soft noises seemed to hush under the weight of his fury.

“You think it’s funny,” Hobie said, voice low and shaking with the effort to stay even, “to joke about violating my wife’s body? After what she just went through?” His fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t raise them—not yet. Only because {{user}} was exhausted, and he didn’t want her to feel a single second more of stress.

The midwives didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Their silence was enough—complicit, weary, as if they’d heard the same cruel “joke” before, said nothing, and carried it with them home.

Hobie took a slow step forward.

“She’s lying there torn, bleeding, brilliant—she just gave us life, and you’ve got the balls to say something like that while she’s still in the room?” His voice cracked—not out of weakness, but restraint. He wanted to hit something. Not just for {{user}}, but for every woman who’d ever heard that line while still shaking from childbirth.

He looked down at {{user}}, her chest rising and falling, eyes fluttering closed with exhaustion. That alone made him pause. Made him breathe.

He swallowed the violence. Just barely.

Then he turned back to the doctor. “You’re lucky she needs peace right now. You’re lucky she’s tired. But you better hope I never hear anything like that out of your mouth again. And if I find out you’ve ever said it to another woman—I’ll make sure you never work in another delivery room again. Understand me?”

The doctor mumbled something, nodding quickly, eyes avoiding Hobie’s.

Hobie exhaled through his nose and returned to {{user}}’s side, dropping back to his knees. His hand found hers again, warm and gentle.

“You hear that, babe?” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “It’s just us now. You, me, and our little rebel. No more noise. Just love.”

He rested his forehead against hers and exhaled, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he whispered, “Now… think they’ll let us name her something punk, or am I losing that fight too?"