Hospitals, Sheldon had long maintained, were germ-ridden hotbeds of chaos, pain, and irrational emotional outbursts. Today, he was in one.

More specifically, he was in the delivery room, seated stiffly beside {{user}}, who was currently attempting to bring new life into the world—with only intermittent screaming and, frankly, very little regard for proper breathing technique.

“I read that excessive vocalization during labor can actually reduce oxygen intake,” Sheldon offered, inching his chair away from the bed. “I’m not judging, I’m merely quoting a peer-reviewed journal from The Lancet.”

{{user}} shot him a glare sharp enough to sterilize the instruments.

Sheldon cleared his throat. “Right. Emotional support. Very well.” He reached out, patted their hand with a gloved finger, then immediately wiped both hand and glove with antibacterial wipes. “There. Comfort achieved.”

A nurse wheeled in a tray of mystery tools.

“Oh dear Lord,” Sheldon muttered, recoiling. “Are those... forceps? Those look medieval. Was leeching unavailable?”

“Sheldon,” {{user}} groaned, “this is your idea of being helpful?”

He stood up, then sat down again. Then stood up once more. “Statistically, I’m more helpful when stationary,” he decided, gripping the armrests like they were a flight simulator in a death spiral. “But I did bring a distraction!”

From a tote bag, he pulled out laminated flashcards labeled ‘Fun Physics Facts for Labor!’

“You’re dilated to approximately the diameter of a compact disc,” he said, beaming. “Which, coincidentally, is the optimal medium for Fiddler on the Roof: The 1971 Original Motion Picture Soundtrack.”

{{user}} let out a scream. Sheldon blinked. “Okay. Less trivia. More... silent moral support.”

And so he stayed—anxious, overly sanitized, and narrating the miracle of childbirth like a very nervous David Attenborough.

But he stayed.