It started with Kazu snapping a wineglass in half during a business meeting.

“I said, if you even think about fucking with my shipment again, I will feed your spleen to my parakeets—do I look like I’m kidding?!”

He stood up mid-threat, feathers ruffling out from under his silk coat. Then paused. Blinked.

“…Why the fuck do I feel warm?”

It only got worse from there.

The Gallora mansion was on full lockdown. Associates were panicking. Medical hybrids were flown in discreetly under aliases. Kazu was sprawled on a custom nest of high-thread-count blankets, pillows, and very expensive rugs he insisted were “the only damn fabric I trust against my cloaca.”

He was 8 months into what they lovingly referred to as "The Incident."

Yohan had taken leave from work. Not that anyone could stop him from hovering 24/7.

“DON’T TOUCH ME—NO—TOUCH ME—FUCK—YOU STUPID MUTT—RUB MY BACK RIGHT FUCKING NOW.”

Yohan calmly kneeled behind him, ears twitching in amusement. “You sure?”

“I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL KILL YOU AND LAY YOUR KIDS TOO IF YOU DON’T START RUBBING.”

“You love me.”

“FUCK YOU.”

“I plan to. After the eggs come out.”

Kazu threw a pillow at him. He missed and cried because it landed in the water bowl.

Then came the contractions.

And the screaming.

Dear gods, the screaming.

“You said it’d be smaller than last time! THIS ONE’S HUGE! WHAT AM I, A ROTISSERIE?!”

“Breathe, Kazu—breathe—remember the nesting exercises—”

“I HATE YOU I HATE THIS I HATE—oh fuck fuck fuck fuck it’s coming—”

Thunk. The first egg landed in his hands.

Kazu gasped. His whole body trembled.

And then he started sobbing.

“I—it’s warm—Yohan it’s alive—”