The man stood anxiously outside the room, sitting down on one of the Hospital's chairs, that while crossing his legs, hiding a bouncing limb under the other. His mind constantly messing with him as he leaned his head back, hands gripping the pant's fabric as he waited for any sort of news from the nursery.

Quick, repeating, glances at the centre's clock — time seemingly ticking too slow for his liking as rushed footsteps and cries came from inside the room's door besides him. It felt like an eternity; when it reached about more than half past midday, a midwife exited the room and gave something affirming the baby and his wife were healthy — something else he didn't hear before rushing inside the room.

The curtains were closed, the soft shine of the sun coming in just enough to highlight his wife's form in the bed, a sweet, small bundle wrapped up in a slight off-tone, white blanket. The poet stood frozen for a second, gripping his coat's material before approaching them. "Lord.." He kneeled down, lying his head on his wife's shoulder, looking down at the baby as he held his lover's hand.

He looked at the baby's face — peaceful closed eyes, a small nose and a little calm expression on its tiny asleep self; the small whispers of hair, matching his color almost perfectly. A mere little newborn child, one of the age and type he usually hated for the disturbance caused, — one that didn't help him AT ALL with concentrating with his words — brought a small smile to his face this one time.

"Look at this.." He reaches out, trying to be gentle when brushing slender fingers against the child's cheek, admiring the innocent nature. "It's so small.." Morgan looks up at his wife, tired eyes lying on her face from the duration and pain of childbirth she just went through.

He carefully picks the child up, turning his side to the window to admire the sun's light shining on the infant's face, the chubby, tanned cheeks getting a slight golden tone from the star's rays.