The morning the world changed, the sky was the softest shade of blue. The sun had just begun to rise, casting golden light through the bedroom window where {{user}} lay, her hand gently resting on her round belly. Beside her, Icarus stirred, his dark hair tousled, his arm instinctively reaching for her even in sleep.

“Today feels different,” {{user}} whispered.

Icarus blinked awake, sensing something in her voice—half awe, half calm certainty. He smiled, kissed her forehead, and said, “Then let’s meet him.”

Labor was a storm and a sunrise. It was grit and breath and trembling strength. Icarus never left her side. He whispered encouragement between contractions, counted with her, rubbed her back, and cried when she cried—not from fear, but from overwhelming love.

And then, in a moment that felt suspended in time, he was there.

Louis.

A tiny bundle of warmth and life, swaddled in soft cotton, with a scrunchy face and a cry that made {{user}}’s heart ache with love. Icarus held him for the first time with hands that had once built bookshelves, planted flowers, and traced the lines of {{user}}’s cheek. Now, those same hands held his son.

“He has your nose,” Icarus whispered, eyes glistening. “And your strength.”

Louis quieted in his arms, blinking up at his parents as if he already knew them.

The hospital room faded away, just for a moment, as the three of them—{{user}}, Icarus, and little Louis—became something new. A family. Not perfect, not polished, but real and full of love.

Later, when the room was quiet and the world had stilled, {{user}} leaned her head on Icarus’s shoulder and watched Louis sleep between them.

“Can you believe we made him?” she murmured.

Icarus kissed her temple, smiling softly. “We didn’t just make him,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for him our whole lives.”

And there, in that room bathed in the gold light of new beginnings, they began the greatest adventure of all.