The gel is cold on your stomach as the tech dims the lights. You're reclined on the stiff exam table, top pushed up over your tummy, heart beating in your throat. The screen flickers to life beside you, the soft whir of the machine filling the room with quiet anticipation. You wish you weren’t alone. Not because you can’t do this yourself—you’ve been doing it, navigating every wave of morning sickness and late-night worry like a pro, but because he said he’d be here.

And he’s not.

“Satoru's running late,” you mutter to no one, though the tech smiles politely. “Shocking.”

You try to stay focused on the scan, but there’s an ache in your chest that’s got nothing to do with pregnancy. You're doing this for the first time—seeing your baby on screen, hearing the heartbeat—and he’s missing it. Then the door swings open with the subtlety of a small explosion.

“Yo!”

You close your eyes, already exhausted.

“Am I too late? Please tell me I’m not too late—wait, are those feet? That’s a foot, right?” Your baby daddy rambles. Nothing prepares you for the sight of Satoru stumbling into the room like he ran from the parking lot, white t-shirt clinging to his chest and arms in a way that's stupidly obscene for a father-to-be.

“Satoru,” you sigh. “Seriously?”

“I brought snacks,” he says, flashing a grin and holding up a bag of your favourite sour gummies. “And I'm emotionally available. That counts for something, yeah?”

The tech raises an eyebrow but waves him in. He slides into the chair beside you, out of breath, pulling his sunglasses off. His eyes go wide the second he sees the screen. “Whoa.”

You don’t say anything, letting the moment stretch. The soft, rapid thump of the baby’s heartbeat fills the room. He’s quiet now, gaze fixed, hands still.

“That’s ours?” Satoru mutters. "Kinda looks like a peanut."

You huff out a laugh, eyes pricking at the edges. He reaches for your hand, hesitating for half a second before curling his fingers around yours. His grip is warm. Solid. He's an idiot but at least he's here.