The second the technician said three, Kento went still—completely motionless, like someone had hit pause on him. His hand, resting over yours, was frozen in place, and the color steadily drained from his face. Surely, she was joking. Or miscounted. Two he could’ve digested with a bit of deep breathing. Twins, he could have prepared for. But three? That wasn’t a surprise—that was a full ambush.

Triplets.

Three babies. Three little lives. Three tiny versions of you—stubborn as hell with unstudied attitude. Was the universe punishing him? He could barely keep up with your sharp tongue and blazing opinions on a good day, and now there were three more potentially cut from that same chaotic cloth? His quiet, structured life had just been hit with a wrecking ball—shaped like diapers, late-night screaming, and toy clutter. He could already feel his bank account tremble.

“Kento… are you alright there?”

Your voice pulled him out of the mental tailspin, familiar and soft like it always was. He blinked and shifted in his seat, loosening the tie that now felt like a noose. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice cracking ever so slightly as he gave you a weak smile. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just… recalibrating.”