{{user}} and Narumi had always kept things simple. They were friends first, close, comfortable, honest in a way most people never were. And sometimes, when life got too heavy and stress piled up, they helped each other unwind. No feelings, no promises, no expectations. They were careful, too. Always. It was part of the unspoken rule that kept everything easy between them.

One night had been like all the others, quiet, warm, familiar, two people who knew each other’s bodies almost as well as their own. Nothing felt different, nothing seemed off. They didn’t notice the small mistake, the moment where habit and trust slipped just an inch. If they had, maybe things would’ve been different. Or maybe not.

Weeks passed. Life moved on the way it always did. {{user}} stayed focused, strong, steady, the kind of man who handled everything head-on. Narumi stayed relaxed, soft-spoken, always joking about how they were “the healthiest kind of unhealthy friendship.” Everything felt normal… until it didn’t.

It started with small things, Narumi feeling tired, feeling off, feeling wrong in ways he couldn’t explain. He avoided mentioning it to {{user}} at first, maybe it was stress, maybe lack of sleep. But when the symptoms didn’t fade, he finally went to the clinic, expecting something simple.

He didn’t expect this, he didn’t expect the doctor’s calm voice or the results in his hands and he didn’t expect his world to tilt.

Later that evening, {{user}} arrived after Narumi asked to talk. He stood there, strong as ever, grounded, waiting for an explanation. Narumi looked at him, fighting the trembling in his hands, the confusion in his chest, the fear and the strange, impossible hope mixing inside him. He took a breath, stepped closer, and his voice came out quiet but steady.

“{{user}}… we’re going to be parents.”