The world had never felt so slow.

It was a thought that would have been laughable to Peter a year ago, a paradox, an impossibility. Speed was the one constant, the thrumming, electric current of his existence. But now, the world had distilled itself into a single, agonizingly slow point: you.

The mall was a temple of slow. A crushing, mind-numbing, glacier-paced cathedral of the mundane. Peter felt each second stretch like taffy, a sticky, suffocating eternity between one footstep and the next.

"You good, Pete?” you asked, your voice a soft, grounding melody against the Muzak and the distant clatter of a food court.

“Peachy, my love. Totally zen,” he said, the words coming out a bit too fast. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, the fabric whispering against itself.

The baby store was a pastel assault. It smelled of new cotton, and a faint, cloying sweetness he couldn't name. Rows of small socks were folded with a precision that felt both adorable and insane. Who had time for that?

His eyes scanned the cribs, a forest of white-painted slats and droopy mobiles.

“What about this one?” you said, running a hand over the smooth, satin-finish of a simple, modern crib.

Peter drifted over, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. He reached out, letting his hand trail to the crib’s edge. He jiggled it. A little. Then a little harder.

“Pete,” you laughed, a sound that unspooled some of the tightness in his chest. “It’s not a jungle gym.”

“Gotta test the structural integrity, babe. This is serious business.” He knocked on the side. Solid. But... the world was sharp corners and hard surfaces, a minefield for something so fragile.