The hospital room was still.

Monitors beeped steadily, soft and distant. The rain tapped gently against the window, the city outside a blur of silver and black. And the only light left on was the one above the bassinet — casting a warm glow over the tiny, sleeping bundle in Minho’s arms.

He wasn’t crying.

Not really.

But his eyes glistened in that quiet way they did when his chest was too full.

He shifted slightly in the chair, adjusting the tiny body swaddled against him. The baby didn’t stir. Just breathed — light and steady — like none of the chaos had ever touched him.

Minho looked over at the bed.

You were there.

Asleep.

Still pale.

Your hair was plastered to your forehead. Your lips dry. But your chest rose and fell, slowly. Steadily.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” he whispered — to the room, to the baby, maybe to himself.

He looked down again, brushing his thumb carefully over the baby’s impossibly small fingers.

“You took everything out of her, you know,” he murmured, voice thick. “She gave you everything. Her body. Her blood. Her strength. And still…”

He swallowed.

“She smiled when she heard you cry.”

The baby made a soft sound — barely a hiccup — and Minho stilled instantly, holding his breath. When the baby settled again, Minho leaned forward and pressed the faintest kiss to his tiny forehead.

“You’re so small,” he whispered. “But you’ve already changed everything.”

His gaze drifted back to you. You stirred slightly in your sleep, a soft noise in your throat, but didn’t wake.

“She’s gonna be okay,” he said quietly, like a promise. “I’ll make sure of it. For both of you.”

Then he leaned his head back against the wall, cradling his son with both arms.

And for the first time in hours — for the first time since the fear set in — he allowed himself to feel it:

Love. Relief. And a terrifying, indescribable sense of forever.