If there was one thing I had learned in the past six months, it was that pregnancy appointnts were not just check-ups.
They were psychological warfare.
I don’t know how other n did it so casually by sitting in hospital waiting rooms scrolling through their phones like their entire world wasn’t being monitored behind a door. ? I couldn’t breathe properly until I saw the ultrasound screen with my own eyes.
Mira sat next to in the private consultation room, legs crossed, one hand resting over our daughter like she was protecting her already. She was calm. Completely calm. anwhile, my jaw was tense enough to crack a tooth.
The doctor walked in a mont later—Dr. Levine, mid-thirties, trying a little too hard to look relaxed. I didn’t miss the way his steps stuttered the mont his gaze flicked to .
Good.
"Mr. and Mrs. Romano," he greeted, smiling too widely. "Good to see you both again."
Mira smiled back politely. I just nodded.
The man had steady hands when he checked Mira’s vitals, I’d give him that. But every ti he reached toward her, I watched his wrist like it was a loaded trigger. He kept glancing at , then at her, then back at like he was silently asking if I was going to break his fingers.
I didn’t an to intimidate him.
Actually... no. I did.
This was my whole world sitting on that examination table. If he sneezed wrong, I’d replace him with soone who didn’t.
"How have you been feeling lately?" he asked Mira gently.
She humd. "Mostly tired. Cravings still hit at weird hours. And she kicks a lot—especially when Jace talks to her. I think she already likes him more."
I turned to her slowly. "That’s because she has taste."
She snorted and rolled her eyes, but I saw the smile tug at her lips.
The doctor switched on the ultrasound machine. The slight hum of the device made sothing inside my chest twist. Mira lay back, lifting her shirt as he spread the gel across her skin. I moved closer imdiately, one hand resting on her leg.
I needed to feel her.
To feel both of them.
The screen flickered, static clearing—and then there she was.
Our daughter.
Not just a heartbeat anymore. Not a vague shape.
A small, defined profile. Tiny fists curled close to her chest. Little legs tucked in.
I felt sothing in shatter and rearrange itself every single ti.
"There she is," the doctor murmured, smiling for real this ti. "Heartbeat looks strong. Growth is right on schedule. She seems very active."
I exhaled slowly, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath.
Mira’s eyes softened. "Hi baby girl..."
The doctor continued speaking, pointing out organs, asurents, numbers but I wasn’t listening anymore.
I was staring.
Committing every pixel of that screen to mory. Because the world could change tomorrow. Empires could fall. Nas could be erased. But she was real. And she was ours. That was all that mattered
My fingertips brushed Mira’s knee. She placed her hand on mine instantly, squeezing once. She didn’t need to look at to know what I was feeling. She always knew.
"That’s your father," she whispered softly toward her belly, voice low and tender. "He worries too much, but he loves you more than anything."
My throat tightened.
The doctor cleared his throat carefully. "Everything looks healthy. I’ll print the scans. Let’s schedule your next appointnt—just routine monitoring as we get closer to the third trister."
I nodded once. "Good."
He jumped a little.
I hadn’t spoken in almost ten minutes. I must’ve sounded like a threat by default.
"Right. I’ll, uh—go get the files." He hurried out quickly.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Mira looked up at .
"Be nice."
"I was nice." I retorted.
"You were glowering at him."
"That’s just my face." I shrugged.
She laughed softly and reached up to cup my cheek. I leaned into her palm despite myself. The gel still glistened on her belly, catching the light, and my gaze dropped again.
I rested a hand over her stomach, fingers spreading slowly like I could hold her—both of them—just by touching her skin.
She covered my hand with hers.
"She’s getting bigger," she whispered.
"She is. And she seems like a strong girl." I said quietly. "She gets that from you."
Mira’s eyes flickered—to my face, to my mouth, to the screen showing our daughter frozen in image. "You’re scared," she said softly. Not accusing. Just noticing.
Only she ever noticed.
"Every day," I admitted.
Her thumb brushed my knuckles. "Why?"
I swallowed, words thick. "Because I don’t know how to do this. No one taught how to be... gentle. Or steady. Or..." I hesitated. "Safe."
She shook her head slowly, eyes warm, sure. "You learned how to love , didn’t you?"
"That was different." I whispered.
"No." She held my face between her palms. "You chose to love . You’ll choose to love her. That’s enough."
Sothing in gave way.
She didn’t know how many nights I woke up afraid of the things I’d done. The blood I’d spilled. The man I had been or may still be. The man the world still believed I was.
But she looked at like I was already the father our daughter deserved.
The door knocked softly and the doctor returned, handing over printed ultrasound photos. Mira took them gently, smiling.
I reached out without thinking and took the top one.
My fingers traced our daughter’s outline like it was holy. Because it actually was.
"Thanks," I muttered.
The doctor blinked like he’d been handed a blessing. "O-of course."
We left the hospital quietly. I walked with one hand on her back, guiding her carefully though she didn’t really need guiding.
Sunlight hit us as we stepped outside—warm and soft. The world slled like late morning and city traffic and spring approaching.
Mira slipped her arm through mine.
"So?" she asked.
I exhaled through my nose, slow. "She’s perfect."
Her smile could’ve stopped my heart. "I know."
We walked toward the car. I opened the door for her, helped her in, and before I closed it, I leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to her forehead.
"You did well, baby," I murmured. "You’re doing so well."
Her eyes softened. "We’re doing this together."
I nodded.
Because I wasn’t afraid of fatherhood.
Not anymore.
I was afraid of losing them.
And now there was only one promise left worth making:
I would burn the world to protect them.
And I would do it gently.
For their sake.
For ours.
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