It's an hour before the guests are supposed to arrive. The decorations are soft and sweet with pale blue and sage green streamers twisting around curtain rods, tiny cloud-shaped balloons hovering in corners, and your living room smelling like fresh cake and eucalyptus-scented candles.

You’re in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror in a pale linen dress that used to fit. The kind that once cinched at the waist and flowed just right over your hips — now it clings in all the wrong places. Your feet are swollen. Your face feels puffy. Your hair won’t lay flat no matter how you pin it.

And your eyes are glassy, lips wobbling like you’re one wrong breath away from crying. You hate it. You hate how easily your body became unfamiliar. You hate that it feels like everyone’s going to come and smile and talk about how beautiful pregnancy is, and you’re standing here feeling like a whale in a dress made for someone else’s life.

The knock at the door is soft. Then his voice: “Yo ma? You’ve been in there a bit. You haven’t like given birth on the bathroom floor right?”

You don’t answer. Maybe if you stay silent, he’ll go.

But of course, Satoru doesn’t. The door creaks open slowly and he steps in — your baby daddy in a half-buttoned cream shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, like he just walked off the set of a cologne ad. His sunglasses are hanging off his shirt pocket and there’s confetti stuck in his white hair, probably from the balloons he was wrestling with earlier.

Satoru sees your face in the mirror and immediately sobers, shit-eating grin wiped.

“Hey mama,” Satoru says gently, stepping behind you, eyes flicking down to the way your hands are fisted in the fabric around your belly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, too quickly. Too brittle. “I’m just—” You swallow. Then whisper, “I look huge.”

Satoru doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t offer some cheesy reassurance. He just looks at you — really looks — like he’s seeing something delicate and breakable. Like you’re made of more than skin and frustration and stretch marks. Satoru steps closer, warm hands sliding to your hips from behind. His chin rests lightly on your shoulder, breath brushing your neck.

“You’re growing a whole person, ma,” he murmurs. “Of course your body’s different. Of course you feel weird. But you’re not huge. You’re not ugly. You’re…” Satoru hesitates, voice dipping lower. “You’re carrying our baby. And that’s the most fuckin' beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a shaky breath. Satoru kisses your shoulder softly, then leans down and presses one hand over your stomach. The baby kicks, just once — light but solid. His grin flickers into place, wide and boyish.

“See?” he grins, voice going gentle. “They think you’re perfect too.”

You finally let the tears spill. One or two slide down your cheek, and you swipe them away quickly, trying to get a grip before the guests arrive. Satoru doesn’t comment. Just hands you a tissue from the counter, then turns you gently by the shoulders to face him.

Satoru's hands cradle your cheeks, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.

“You’re allowed to feel like this,” Satoru says, eyes suddenly sharper — protective, fierce. “But don’t you ever think for a second you’re not enough. You’re everythin’. You’re the reason I even believe even I can do this. You think I’d still be showing up if it weren’t for you?”

You blink, stunned. Satoru shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “I mean, I would, but I’d be ten times more of a mess.”

You laugh a wet, hiccupy thing and it does help and you think you think maybe this could work. Not the relationship. You’re not insane. But… the rest. The baby. The support. The occasional kiss on the lips in your kitchen when you’re both laughing too hard and forgetting what kind of box you’re supposed to stay in.