there’s always been a quiet kind of peace in suguru’s eyes—like still water under moonlight, calm and steady no matter what storm was brewing around him. maybe that’s what first drew you in. maybe that’s why falling for him felt so easy, like slipping into something that had always been waiting. there was comfort in his presence, the kind that didn’t demand anything loud or dramatic. just warmth. just knowing.

as time passed, that comfort deepened. you met his family, he met yours. late-night talks turned into shared mornings, and laughter turned into vows, whispered between soft sheets and half-finished meals. it wasn’t perfect, but it was real. it was yours. and somewhere in the middle of all that life, the idea of a future began to take shape. slowly. quietly.

you never really talked about having kids. not out loud, not in actual words. but the thought was always kind of there—soft and quiet, hanging in the background like the soft melody of a song you didn't know. it showed up in the way he held you on hard days, in the look he gave you during slow mornings, in the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty. it was never something you planned, never something you needed to name. it just existed—unspoken, but felt.

so when the test came back positive, three weeks in, you didn’t know what to feel. your chest was full—too full. nerves, joy, fear, all tangled up in something that didn’t have a name yet. you waited a few days, trying to find the right moment. trying to figure out how to say it without shattering the calm you’d built together.

when you finally told him, it was in the kitchen. evening light casting soft gold against the countertops. your hands were trembling, just barely, resting in your lap as you looked at him. he noticed immediately. of course he did.

“baby, what’s wrong?” his voice was gentle, threaded with that quiet kind of concern that never made you feel small—just seen.