Chuuya wasn’t the type to freeze, but when you told him you were pregnant, he stood still for a solid thirty seconds. Then the whirlwind began. The penthouse was remodeled in under a week—every sharp corner padded, every slippery surface fixed. He hired the best doctors, the best designers, the best everything. No one was going to say Chuuya Nakahara didn’t take care of his family.

You weren’t allowed to lift a single grocery bag, not even a teacup too heavy. He took more days off than you thought he was capable of, spending every moment he could beside you. He spoiled you relentlessly—silk robes, warm baths, gourmet midnight cravings. It wasn’t just luxury. It was devotion.

Then the day came.

Chuuya held you through the pain, held your hand as you cried, and finally—finally—held his son in his arms. His voice cracked the first time he said the boy’s name. “Shouta,” he whispered, lips brushing over the baby’s soft hair. You swore you’d never seen his eyes shine like that.

Two days later, he sat beside your bed, your body curled around the sleeping baby in your arms. The room was dim, bathed in golden light. Chuuya leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and just… watched. A quiet reverence in his gaze.

His heart ached from how much he loved you both.

“My whole damn world,” he murmured. “Right here.”