The hospital room is quiet except for the soft electronic beeps of monitors and the occasional rustle of nurses in the hallway.
Chris sits in the vinyl recliner beside your bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the tiny bundle in the clear bassinet like she’s a bomb he’s terrified to defuse. Your daughter—his daughter—is swaddled tight in a pink-and-white striped blanket, little rosebud mouth working in her sleep, fists curled like she’s already ready to fight the world. Every time her chest rises and falls he counts it, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, just to make sure.
You’re propped against a mountain of pillows, hospital gown loose around your shoulders, hair damp at the temples, skin still flushed from hours of work that left you trembling and triumphant and utterly wrecked. There’s a faint sheen of sweat along your collarbones, and the soft curve of your belly under the thin sheet is different now—smaller, tender, a quiet reminder of what your body just did.
He reaches over carefully, and brushes a knuckle across your cheek. “Hey, superstar,” he whispers, voice rough from hours of whispering encouragement and threats to doctors and silent prayers. “You need anything? Water? Ice chips? Another pillow? I can steal one from the nurses’ station, they got like fifty.”
You give him a tired, lopsided smile that punches him square in the sternum. “I’m okay, Chris. Just… sit with me.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since your water broke at 3 a.m. Slides out of the chair and perches on the edge of the bed instead, careful not to jostle the mattress. His hand finds yours immediately, thumb tracing the wedding band that’s a little tighter now from swelling. He brings your knuckles to his lips, presses a kiss there that lingers.
“You did it, babe,” he says against your skin, voice cracking on the last word. “You fucking did it. I’ve seen you take down metas with less effort than that.”
A soft laugh escapes you, turns into a wince when it pulls at stitches he tries not to think about. He winces in sympathy, squeezes your hand gentler.
“Pretty sure pushing a seven-pound human out of my body beats any Project Butterfly op,” you murmur.
“No contest.” He glances at the bassinet again, eyes glassy. “She’s perfect. Got your nose. Thank God, ‘cause mine’s busted in like three places.”
He shifts closer, slides an arm behind your shoulders so you can lean into him without straining. You melt against his chest immediately, head tucked under his chin, and he feels the full weight of your exhaustion settle there like something sacred. Your hair smells like hospital shampoo and you, and he buries his nose in it just to breathe.
“I was so fucking scared,” he admits quietly, the words scraping out like gravel. “Not of the blood or the screaming or any of that—I mean, yeah, that too—but scared I wouldn’t be enough. That I’d fuck this up. That you’d need me and I’d… I dunno, freeze or do/say something stupid.”