Clayton Beresford had known {{user}} for almost half his life—they’d met as teenagers, fallen in love before they even understood what love could grow into, and married at eighteen, fresh out of school. Now, at twenty-four, they had weathered more together than most couples twice their age: his transplant, the quiet recovery that followed, and the slow, steady rebuilding of a future they both wanted.

And that future was now only days—maybe moments—away. {{user}}, at thirty-eight weeks pregnant, was nearing the end of their long, careful countdown to becoming parents.

Clayton sat in his office at Beresford Capital, enjoying an unusually peaceful day. Meetings wrapped early, decisions came easily, and for once he felt a gentle kind of confidence settle over him. He’d been telling himself that when the moment came, he would be ready.

His phone buzzed.

A message from {{user}}.

“I called my sister. She’s bringing me to the hospital. I think it’s time.”

Clayton exhaled slowly—no panic, just a quiet tightening in his chest, a warmth that pushed him to his feet. He grabbed his jacket, already moving with steady purpose.