The room was quiet, wrapped in soft light that pooled gently over the white sheets. The sharp, sterile brightness of the hospital had been dimmed; only a few warm lamps glowed near the wall, their light golden and calm. Outside, it was dark—just a blur of night against the window, making the space feel even smaller, safer.

You lay in the hospital bed, your upper body raised by a stack of pillows. The faint scent of disinfectant hung in the air, mixing with something familiar—your shampoo, maybe, or the faint trace of the blanket Simon had tucked around you earlier. Under the thin hospital gown, the elastic straps of the monitors pressed lightly against your belly, recording every movement, every tightening. The quiet beeps from the screen beside you tracked your heartbeat and the baby’s.

A clear tube ran from the drip stand into your arm, slow drops of fluid sliding down through it in steady rhythm. The soft sound blended with your breathing, the occasional rustle of sheets. It was the calm between waves.

Simon sat close, his chair pulled right to your bedside. His left hand rested gently on your head, his thumb brushing along your forehead in slow, reassuring strokes. The skin of his hand was rough, warm—anchoring. He watched you quietly, his gaze soft despite the tired lines around his eyes. You were in your thirty-ninth week, and every part of this moment—every sound, every flicker of movement—meant something.

He leaned a little closer, voice low and steady, the trace of his accent warm against the quiet.

“Hey.” He murmured.

“You want something to drink, sweetheart?”