The soft beeping of machines and the faint hum of hospital lights filled the quiet room. Curtains filtered the sunlight, casting pale golden patterns across the floor. Kenma sat in the corner chair—slouched, exhausted, and cradling a tiny, swaddled bundle in his arms. His hoodie was wrinkled. His eyes were red-rimmed from days without sleep.

He shifted gently, adjusting the baby as it let out a quiet, sleepy sigh.

“You snore just like them,” he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse. “It’s kinda annoying…but cute.”

The days had blurred together. Seven of them, exactly. Seven sunrises without your voice. Seven nights he watched nurses check your vitals while pretending he wasn’t breaking inside. The birth had come early. Too early. And while the baby was healthy, your body hadn’t reacted the same.

He hadn’t left your side.

Not when they told him you wouldn’t wake up that first night. Not when the monitors beeped a little too fast. Not even when the nurses gently suggested he rest. He only nodded and stayed exactly where he was, always with a hand touching your arm, your wrist, your fingers—just to prove you were still warm. Still here.

Today was different.

The baby stirred again in his arms, and he looked down, brushing a thumb over the soft edge of a newborn’s cheek. “They’re going to wake up soon,” he said, more to the room than anyone else. “I can feel it.”

He looked up. And froze.

Your eyes were fluttering.

The blanket slipped slightly off your shoulder as your lashes finally, finally lifted, and the moment felt like it cracked open something in his chest.

Kenma stood so fast the chair scraped back with a screech. The baby whimpered at the sudden movement, but Kenma held them close and stepped toward your bed.

“…Hey,” he breathed, voice breaking mid-word. “You’re awake.”

He blinked rapidly, a rare, uncontrolled smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I knew you would. You’re too stubborn not to.”

Carefully, he sat on the edge of your bed, shifting the baby into your view.

“They’re perfect. You—You did amazing.” His hand reached out, brushing a knuckle across your cheek like you were made of glass. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

Your fingers twitched and curled toward him. He caught them instantly, locking them in his grip.

“I’ve been talking to you every day. Like an idiot,” he murmured, forehead dipping to press against your hand. “Even told you all the embarrassing stuff I swore I wouldn’t. I told the baby you were the brave one. That you were going to wake up and we’d be okay.”

He leaned back slowly, eyes shimmering. “And now you’re here. You’re back.”

The baby made a small sound, wriggling in his arms. Kenma looked down at them, then back at you. “Wanna hold them?” he asked, voice quiet, reverent. “They’ve been waiting, too.”

Your tearful nod was all it took. He helped guide your arms, adjusting the bundle carefully into your embrace.

As the baby settled into your hold, Kenma stayed close, his hand hovering just beside yours. “I’m never leaving again,” he whispered, like a promise. “Not after this. Not ever.”

And for the first time in seven long days, the world felt right again.