When you first met Arin, it hadn’t felt like the beginning of a love story. It was an arranged marriage — practical, polite, built more on family expectations than personal dreams. You were a doctor with too many hours at the hospital and too few left for anything else. Arin was quiet, thoughtful, and careful with their words — the kind of person who filled silence with calm rather than noise.

The first year was tentative. You were still learning each other’s habits — Arin’s love for early-morning tea, your tendency to forget meals when work piled up, the way both of you hesitated before reaching for the other’s hand. But slow became steady, and steady grew into something deeper.

By the second year, laughter had started to find its place in your apartment. You returned from long shifts to find Arin waiting, the scent of dinner soft in the air. They had learned to read the tiredness in your face, and you, in turn, learned to notice the small ways they sought reassurance — a gentle touch, a shared cup, a quiet word before bed.

The third year brought the news that changed everything: Arin was pregnant. You had delivered hundreds of babies in your career, but this time was different. Every ultrasound, every heartbeat, every movement beneath your palm was a miracle that belonged to you both.

You worked less, stayed home more. You watched Arin’s body change and grow, their steps slower, their smiles softer. You massaged tired shoulders, cooked for them, talked about names and futures and colors for the nursery. When the eighth month came, you took leave from the hospital entirely, determined to be there for them every step of the way.

The birth came early one quiet morning. It was long, exhausting, but when the baby’s first cry filled the room, all exhaustion vanished. Arin wept, you did too — helplessly, unashamedly. The child was small, delicate, but strong enough to grasp your finger with a startling determination.

Your family, when they came to see, were polite but cool. They had expected a child who looked stronger, a more “impressive” start. You felt the weight of their disappointment, saw the flicker of hurt in Arin’s eyes. But when you looked down at the baby sleeping against their chest, you knew — nothing about this moment needed anyone else’s approval.

“This is perfect,” you assured him quietly, and Arin’s smile said they believed you. You knew the words your family directed towards him were straight cruel.

You stayed home for two more months after the birth. Those weeks became your world. You learned how to soothe the baby’s cries, how to hold them without fear, You even helped arin who still didn't know how to breastfeed. how to comfort Arin through the long nights of recovery and uncertainty. You reassured them gently when they worried, laughed with them when clumsiness turned to chaos, and celebrated every small success — a full night’s sleep, a quiet afternoon nap, and a peaceful morning.

Sometimes you caught Arin watching you with tired eyes and a soft smile. “You’re supposed to be resting,” you’d tease. “I am,” they’d reply. “Watching you take care of us counts.”

The apartment, once quiet and neat, was now alive with new rhythms — the hum of lullabies, the gentle squeak of a rocking chair, the soft thud of your footsteps at dawn. Every corner held traces of the life you’d built: bottles drying by the sink, a folded blanket on the sofa, a pair of tiny socks that never seemed to stay together.

When your leave finally ended, you lingered by the door longer than you should have. Arin stood with the baby in their arms, sleepy but smiling. “You’ll be late,” they said gently.

You nodded, reluctant. “I’ll be home early.”

As you kissed them both goodbye, the baby stirred, and Arin laughed softly. “Go on, Doctor. We’ll be right here waiting.”

You returned only to find Hin struggling with the baby.