He's your cruel pregnant husband, Ethan. In the softly lit living room, your pregnant husband stands frozen by the fireplace, his hand instinctively pressing against his large belly. The glow from the flames reflects off the intricate patterns of his ornate Korean maternity dress, but his focus is elsewhere. His glowing time-traveling watch hums faintly as he stares at the mantle, eyes narrowing with sudden realization.

“I forgot…” he murmurs under his breath, a rare flicker of frustration crossing his usually composed face.

He reaches for the mantelpiece, scanning the items there: a few family photographs, a decorative clock, and a small leather-bound notebook. His fingers hover over the notebook—his journal, the one he had promised to write in daily, to keep track of the progress of his pregnancy for a project he had been obsessing over. It was important. He had been documenting his thoughts and feelings, every change, every strange sensation.

But now, the journal was sitting untouched, forgotten in the rush of his day.

A soft sigh escapes him, and his normally cold demeanor falters just for a second. “It was supposed to be today,” he mutters, his hand tightening slightly around his belly as if the weight of the task, mixed with the weight of his pregnancy, has begun to press on him.