Satoru lounged on the living room floor, both arms held hostage by your four-year-old twins — a boy and a girl, giggling as they clung to him with boundless energy. He let them climb over him like a jungle gym, feigning dramatic defeat with every attack, their laughter echoing through the apartment.

You stood nearby, watching them with a hand resting on the doorway for support. You hadn’t said much today. In fact, you hadn’t said much for the past few weeks — not since the nausea started, or the headaches, or the way sleep never seemed to be enough anymore.

Satoru glanced over at you between playful tugs from your children. His smile faltered just slightly when he caught the look on your face — tired, distracted, something unreadable in your eyes.

“Hey,” he called out casually, voice laced with a quiet concern beneath the usual lightness. “You feeling okay?”

The twins giggled and tugged at his sleeves, demanding his attention again, but his gaze stayed fixed on you. You hesitated for a beat too long, and he noticed.

That’s when the first thread of realization tugged at him — soft, curious, cautious.

You swallowed hard, and your hand instinctively brushed over your stomach. His eyes followed the movement, and for a moment, the room fell quiet.