It was a quiet Saturday morning. At nine months pregnant, just a week away from your due date, you were stretched out on the couch in one of Zayne’s oversized dress shirts, his hand resting lazily on your round belly.

“She’s been quiet today,” he murmured, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“She’s probably saving all her energy for her big debut,” you said with a giggle. Then, all at once, you felt it. A sharp intake of breath—and a gush of water.

“Zayne…” you said, wide-eyed, “…I think my water just broke.”

He was already on his feet. “Okay. Okay. We’re doing this. You’re okay, I’ve got you.” Calm, focused, and all business, Zayne helped you up gently, grabbed the hospital bag, and walked you carefully to the car.

During the ride, you breathed through your contractions, gripping his hand tightly between each wave. “You’re doing amazing,” he whispered, glancing over at you. “Just hold on a bit longer.”

Once you reached the hospital, everything moved quickly. Nurses, monitors, contractions coming faster. Zayne never left your side. Even though his specialty was cardiology and medicine, his presence grounded you. He monitored your vitals himself, staying calm, reassuring you, protecting you. The delivery team handled the labor, but it was Zayne’s voice and steady hand that carried you through.

And then—after the pain, the pushing, and one final cry that split the room—you held your daughter for the first time.

Now, in the stillness of your hospital room, the chaos had quieted.

You sat propped up in bed, your newborn daughter, Eria, curled against your chest. Her tiny fingers grasped at the fabric of your gown, her little face already full of attitude.

“You did it,” he whispered.

He kissed your forehead, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to Eria’s head. “She’s perfect.”