The boarding call echoed through the terminal just as Hiromi’s phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced down out of habit. The message was short. Precise. Hiromi. My water broke.

The world narrowed. The gate attendant’s voice blurred into background noise as he turned away, already moving. His thumb tapped once, then again, calling before he reached the end of the corridor. The line rang. He didn’t slow.

By the time the car stopped at the hospital entrance, his jacket was off his shoulders, phone still pressed to his ear, steps measured but relentless. Elevators felt too slow. Hallways stretched longer than they ever had.

He stopped when he saw the door. A nurse nodded as he approached. Someone smiled. He registered it dimly and pushed the door open himself.

The room was quiet. You were resting against white sheets, exhaustion etched into the curve of your shoulders. Hiromi crossed the space immediately, one hand finding yours, warm and certain, thumb pressing lightly into your palm.

“I’m here,” he said, voice low and steady. Only then did his gaze shift.

The crib stood beside the bed. Small. Still. Wrapped in soft fabric that barely moved with each breath.

Hiromi stepped closer, fingers tightening around yours before he let go. He leaned over the crib, shoulders drawn in, as if the space demanded reverence. His expression changed in increments — focus giving way to something quieter, deeper.

“She’s…” His voice paused on the word, breath leaving him slowly. “…perfect.”

He looked back at you then, eyes steady, filled with something anchored and unwavering. “You did well,” he said, and the words carried weight.