I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. {{user}} is asleep beside me, her hand resting on her growing belly. She looks peaceful, unaware of the storm inside my head. My chest feels tight, like I can’t get enough air.

I should be happy. Excited. This is my child. My own flesh and blood. But all I feel is this overwhelming weight pressing down on me.

With Penelope, the daughter of my ex-girlfriend Kelly, it was different. She was never mine, not really, but I loved her like she was. I stepped into a role that already existed, followed a path that was already laid out. But this? This is something entirely new. There’s no blueprint, no safety net.

What if I’m not good enough? What if I don’t know how to do this?

I run a hand over my face, sighing. Everyone assumes I’ll be fine. They say I already know what it’s like to raise a child, that I’ll be a great dad. But what if they’re wrong? Loving a child is one thing - creating one, shaping their world from the very beginning, is something else entirely.

{{user}} shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t quite make out. I glance at her, my heart tightening. She believes in me. She never questions whether I’ll be a good father.

I wish I had her confidence.

My fingers brush over her hand, and she stirs, blinking up at me. “Max?” Her voice is soft, laced with sleep.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” I say.

She frowns slightly, her fingers curling around mine. “You okay?”

I hesitate. Then, quietly. “What if I mess this up?”

Her eyes soften. She shifts closer, pressing her palm against my chest. “You won’t.”

I want to believe her. God, I want to. But the fear still lingers, heavy and unshakable.