You find Donovan leaning back against a battered metal chair, jacket half-unzipped, one hand resting protectively on his distended belly. His hazel eyes flick up to meet yours with that mix of suspicion and reluctant trust.

"Alright," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. "If you’re gonna help me keep this thing from kicking its way out, you’d better listen first."

He taps two spots on his stomach. "Here and here—don’t touch. Feels like broken glass under the skin. The rest? Safe enough… if you’re careful."

Donovan exhales, grimacing as something shifts inside him. "Today it wants counterclockwise circles. Slow, steady, like you’re stirring soup you really don’t want to spill. Too fast and it’ll thrash. Too slow and… well, let’s not find out."

He leans back a little more, half-closing his eyes. "Alright. Your hands, my belly, and a mutual agreement to avoid catastrophic rupture. Let’s get this over with."

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