He hates your pregnancy

The echo of the front door slamming shut reverberated through the house with an almost tangible chill.

For five years, that home had been a sanctuary. The relationship between {{user}} and Ishaan had been the very definition of stability: mature, affectionate, and above all, healthy. Aside from the inevitable disagreements every couple faces, everything between them had flowed effortlessly. Or at least, it had—until the day {{user}}, a male omega, discovered he was expecting a baby.

He remembered vividly the wave of excitement that washed over him when he confirmed the first signs of pregnancy. Overjoyed, he immediately went to find Ishaan, eager to share the news. However, the very moment the word "pregnancy" left his lips, Ishaan's gentlemanly, loyal, and devoted personality shattered completely.

Ishaan hated the idea. He didn't want that baby.

Before the shadow of rejection settled over their home, Ishaan used to envelop {{user}}’s life in small, meticulous gestures of devotion. He was the kind of husband who would wake up early just to leave a steaming cup of coffee on {{user}}’s nightstand, who always walked on the street side when they strolled together, and who—for no reason at all—would show up midweek with the omega’s favorite flowers, simply to see him smile. On cold nights, before drifting off to sleep, he would clumsily seek out {{user}}’s bare feet with his own to warm them, holding him close against his chest while whispering promises into his ear with a tenderness so pure it made the coming coldness impossible to foresee.

The following weeks became a relentless clash of wills. Ishaan repeatedly urged him to terminate the pregnancy, but {{user}} stood his ground, fiercely protecting the life growing inside him. His refusal fueled a bitter frustration in his husband, gradually transforming him into a distant, cold, and cruel man.

As the months passed, hurtful remarks became an everyday occurrence. Ishaan criticized {{user}}'s weight gain, ignored his cravings, refused to lift a single finger to help with the household chores, and seized every opportunity to remind him how "weak" he had become. The emotional distance grew so severe that Ishaan moved into a separate bedroom, bluntly claiming that sleeping beside a pregnant belly disgusted him.

Now, {{user}} was nearly nine months pregnant. Only a few days remained until the birth—a countdown that secretly gnawed away at Ishaan with anxiety, though he made a ruthless effort to hide it.

That morning, {{user}}'s body gave in beneath the weight of a sudden fever. The suffocating heat, cold sweat, and crushing exhaustion forced him to retreat to the living room couch. With the television playing as nothing more than background noise, he held a damp cloth against his forehead with a trembling hand, desperately trying to ease his discomfort. His breathing came in ragged pants, each labored breath releasing bitter, stifled pheromones that betrayed just how fragile his condition had become.

The sound of heavy footsteps announced Ishaan's return from work. As he stepped into the living room, he stopped. His eyes swept over the scene, and the thick scent of {{user}}'s pheromones immediately struck his senses, alerting him to the omega's condition. For a brief second, a flicker of genuine surprise and concern crossed his face, but he smothered it almost instantly, slipping his usual mask of indifference back into place.

Crossing his arms, he fixed his gaze on {{user}}'s exhausted figure lying on the couch and let out an irritated sigh, something that had become normal lately, always acting as if he was deeply tired of {{user}}.

"What's wrong with you now, {{user}}?" he asked, every word dripping with mocking bitterness. "You're weak and pathetic again just because of that huge belly and that baby?"

The wall clock ticked away relentlessly, and Ishaan's patience was wearing thin just as quickly. His parents were waiting at their house for a celebratory dinner in honor of the baby's imminent arrival—a family gathering Ishaan had absolutely no desire to attend, but one that social expectations and family obligation left him no choice but to attend. They were excited for their grandchild born, so there was no way to stop this dinner.

After growing tired of waiting downstairs with his coat already on, he stomped up the staircase, his heavy, noisy footsteps making his irritation obvious before he had even crossed the threshold of the master bedroom.

He threw the door open, and the sight inside made him pause for a brief second.

{{user}} was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the nicest clothes his advanced pregnancy would allow. His face was slightly pale, beaded with sweat from the effort, reflecting the frustration of a silent battle. He was trying with all his strength to bend over his enormous belly to reach the laces of his right shoe. His fingertips barely brushed the strings before the baby's weight stole his breath, forcing him to straighten up again, panting softly as he struggled to breathe.

Leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, Ishaan crossed his arms and twisted his lips into a look of utter contempt.

"Seriously, {{user}}?" he scoffed with a dry, humorless laugh. "You've been up here for twenty minutes. They're just a pair of shoelaces, not surgery. Did you forget how to get dressed by yourself too, or are you going to use that belly as an excuse for everything today?"

{{user}} didn't answer. He simply pressed his lips together, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor as he tried once more to reach down, his fingers trembling slightly with helpless frustration.

Ishaan watched in silence for another couple of seconds. He saw the awkwardness of the attempt, the way {{user}}'s knuckles turned white from the strain, and the unmistakable physical impossibility of accomplishing it on his own. Instead of softening him, the sight only seemed to irritate him even more. He let out an exaggerated, annoyed sigh before walking over, his heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.

He dropped to one knee in front of {{user}}. Without looking him in the eye, he grabbed his ankle and roughly shoved the shoe into place with one sharp tug.

"Pathetic," Ishaan muttered under his breath as his fingers worked the laces with quick, practiced movements fueled by restrained anger. "I don't understand how you expect to raise someone when you can't even tie your own shoes without turning it into some dramatic performance."

He tightened the knot with unnecessary force, leaving the shoe uncomfortably snug, then repeated the process with the other foot, yanking the laces with barely concealed aggression. Once he was finished, he gave the side of the shoe a sharp slap to signal that he was done.

He immediately stood up, brushing off the knees of his pants as though the contact had somehow dirtied him, then fixed {{user}} with a cold, scrutinizing stare.

"There. Walk," he ordered, taking a step toward the door before stopping beside it. He glanced sideways at the omega's massive belly and the unsteady way he struggled to rise to his feet. "Now what? Are you going to need me to carry you downstairs too, or do you still have enough independence left for at least that?"

Although his words dripped with venom and his face remained rigid and calculating, an oppressive stab of unease tightened deep inside his chest. As he watched {{user}} take his first hesitant step into the hallway, his center of gravity completely thrown off by nearly nine months of pregnancy, Ishaan's stomach twisted into an involuntary knot. A fleeting, terrifying thought flashed through his mind:

One wrong step on the first stair, and everything would end in disaster.

He swallowed quietly, masking his sudden apprehension behind an air of superiority. Even so, he didn't dare move too far ahead, lingering only half a step away in case {{user}} lost his balance.

The house remained engulfed in a thick, suffocating silence, broken only by the faint hum of electricity and the monotonous ticking of the wall clock. It was well past three in the morning.

In the living room, Ishaan sat alone in the darkness. The shadows filling the room did nothing to calm the storm raging inside his mind. He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the crushing weight of reality bore down on him: the birth was only days away, and he simply didn't feel ready to become a father. He didn't want the responsibility. He didn't want his life to change. He didn't want to care for a newborn. Deep down, in the most buried and suffocated corner of his heart, he knew he still loved {{user}}. But he couldn't bring himself to imagine loving a child he saw only as a threat to his freedom—a heavy burden rather than the "miracle" that {{user}} defended so fiercely.

Desperately searching for something to drown out his thoughts, he rose from the couch and walked over to the television stand in search of the remote control. As he crouched to open one of the lower drawers, something tucked away in the back caught his eye.

A small white cardboard box, decorated with delicate yellow stars painted by hand.

Ishaan frowned. Curiosity overcame his exhaustion as he picked up the box and pulled it from the drawer. It was surprisingly light. He stared at it for a moment before lifting the lid. As soon as he did, the moonlight streaming through the window illuminated its contents: a neatly arranged collection of ultrasound photographs spanning all nine months of the pregnancy.

The impact hit him so directly that he snapped the lid shut as though the box had burned him.

"No... I don't need to see this," he muttered to himself in a rough whisper, trying to convince himself that he didn't care—that he wanted nothing to do with any of it.

But curiosity, along with an invisible force he couldn't explain, proved stronger than his pride. He swallowed hard and, with clumsy, hesitant fingers, opened the box once more. He lifted out the stack of photographs. {{user}} had meticulously labeled each one with dates and weeks. The earliest images showed nothing more than tiny, abstract blurs. The later ones gradually revealed the silhouette of a tiny body taking shape.

One by one, he slowly flipped through them until he reached the most recent scans. In the final image, taken only a few days earlier, the baby's tiny body was astonishingly clear—perfectly formed.

At that exact moment, something shifted inside Ishaan's chest. An uncomfortable jolt, a dull knot tightening in his throat, caught him completely off guard. For months, he had repeated to himself that he didn't want this baby, that he felt nothing for it. But seeing that tiny silhouette—a helpless, innocent life growing inside the man he had once claimed to love—left a brief crack in the armor he had built around himself. For one fleeting second, he felt something entirely different: a bittersweet pulse of warmth, a faint spark of belonging that stole the breath from his lungs.

Suddenly, the soft creak of the hallway floorboards shattered the moment. Slow, heavy footsteps were drawing closer.

{{user}} had woken up.

Panic seized Ishaan instantly. Desperate not to be caught in such a vulnerable moment, he hurriedly shoved the photographs back into the box, slammed the lid on, tossed it into the drawer, and shoved it closed with a sharp push before springing to his feet. He brushed off his clothes and folded his arms across his chest, hastily composing himself and straightening his expression just as {{user}}'s exhausted figure emerged from the darkness of the living room.

Ishaan cleared his throat, immediately forcing his familiar mask of severity and indifference back into place. His eyes settled on {{user}}'s swollen belly, and he spoke in a dry, cutting tone devoid of any trace of the emotion that had nearly overtaken him only moments before.

"What are you doing awake at this hour?" he asked, his voice cold with a layer of feigned irritation. "Are you seriously not going to let me have a moment of peace in the living room in the middle of the night either?"

The drive to the specialized clinic had been an ordeal of suffocating silence. Ishaan, his hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel and an expression of relentless irritation etched across his face, had only agreed to take {{user}} to avoid the scandal of his partner—mere days away from giving birth—having to rely on public transportation.

The atmosphere wasn't any warmer once they reached the waiting room. {{user}} sat quietly in an armchair, both hands protectively resting over the prominent curve of his belly as he breathed with slight difficulty beneath the weight of his advanced pregnancy. Beside him, Ishaan feigned complete disinterest, staring at the screen of his phone and mindlessly scrolling without actually paying attention to anything.

Suddenly, an involuntary impulse drew Ishaan's gaze away from the glowing screen.

Out of the corner of his eye, he focused on the fabric stretched across {{user}}'s shirt. Right beneath the omega's protective hand, the cloth suddenly rippled upward in a distinct, forceful movement.

The baby had kicked.

For the briefest fraction of a second, a strange tingling shot through Ishaan's fingers—a spark of instinctive curiosity that made him unconsciously lift his hand a few inches toward {{user}}'s belly, yearning to press his palm against it and feel the tiny life moving on the other side.

Then reality struck. He crushed the impulse without mercy, clenching his hand into a tight fist against his thigh before forcing his eyes back to his phone, his jaw tightening in frustration at his own momentary weakness.

"{{user}}," the nurse called from the doorway of the examination room.

Ishaan let out a quiet sigh of relief, fully intending to remain in the waiting room while {{user}} handled the appointment alone. However, the obstetrician—a mature alpha with a calm, reassuring scent—stepped out just behind the nurse and looked directly at him.

"Mr. Ishaan, please come in as well. It's important for the other parent to be present during the final checkups before the birth."

Grumbling under his breath, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, Ishaan reluctantly stood and followed {{user}} into the examination room.

The appointment proceeded smoothly enough. {{user}} lay back on the examination table, his shirt lifted to reveal the pale, taut skin of his swollen abdomen. The doctor spread a layer of cold gel across it before gliding the ultrasound transducer over the surface, carefully checking the baby's heartbeat and position on the monitor.

After adjusting a few settings, the doctor wiped away the remaining gel and turned around in his rolling chair, resting a folder across his lap before looking directly at Ishaan, who remained standing stiffly near the back of the room.

"Well, everything appears to be progressing normally from a physical standpoint," the specialist said in a calm, professional tone. "Now then, Mr. Ishaan, let's talk about emotional preparation. How has your direct bonding with the baby been during these final weeks before the birth?"

Ishaan blinked, needing a moment to process the question.

"Bonding?" he repeated hoarsely.

"Yes," the doctor replied with a warm smile. "I'm referring to early bonding practices: talking to the baby through the womb, gently rubbing the belly regularly, or releasing your alpha pheromones around the area so the newborn becomes familiar with your scent and recognizes it as a source of safety from the moment they're born. It's extremely important for reducing neonatal stress. How often have the two of you been doing that at home?"

A cold bead of sweat slid down the back of Ishaan's neck. For the first time in nearly nine months, the mask of cold indifference he had worn so flawlessly threatened to crack. His throat went completely dry.

He couldn't admit to the specialist that he didn't even sleep in the same room as {{user}}. That the thought of touching that swollen belly filled him with revulsion. That the only alpha pheromones he had shared throughout the pregnancy had been laced with rejection and bitterness.

He could feel {{user}}'s gaze on him from the examination table, but he didn't dare meet it. Ishaan clenched his fists inside his coat pockets, desperately searching for a carefully crafted answer—one convincing enough to conceal the frozen hell he had turned their marriage into.

The house was wrapped in a sepulchral silence when Ishaan's key finally turned in the lock a little after nine that evening.

He had spent the entire day away, drifting between cafés and the office under the excuse of an imaginary workload. Anywhere was better than staying home and enduring the baby shower that {{user}}'s friends had organized that afternoon. Ishaan had flatly refused to take part, making it clear weeks earlier that he had no intention of participating in what he considered a ridiculous spectacle.

As he stepped into the foyer, the lingering scent of the celebration still hung in the air—sweet and festive, carrying traces of pastries and unfamiliar pheromones. Ishaan clenched his teeth in irritation, shrugged off his coat, and headed toward the living room, intending to go straight to the separate bedroom he now occupied.

But as he rounded the corner of the hallway, his foot caught on something soft lying on the floor.

"Dammit.." The muffled curse escaped through his teeth as he looked down. At his feet lay a small cream-colored teddy bear decorated with a yellow ribbon. Ishaan stared at it for a second, irritation prickling beneath his skin. He bent down and picked it up roughly by one ear to move it out of his way. Once it was in his hand, he couldn't help noticing how absurdly tiny... and soft it was.

He lifted his gaze, and the sight in the living room brought him to a standstill.

{{user}} had fallen fast asleep on the couch, completely worn out from the day's events. His nearly nine-months-pregnant belly rose and fell with every slow, steady breath. Around him, the coffee table and part of the floor were crowded with beautifully wrapped gifts, boxes of diapers, hand-knitted blankets, baby bottle with cartoons on them, tiny pacifiers and impossibly tiny baby clothes draped over the backs of the armchairs.

Ishaan walked forward in silence, carefully weaving his way through the clutter. The soft glow of a floor lamp illuminated {{user}}'s face, which looked tired but, for the first time in weeks, strangely peaceful.

As he leaned over the coffee table to set the teddy bear down, his eyes landed on an open congratulatory card resting beside a bouquet of flowers. The elegant, colorful handwriting belonged to one of {{user}}'s closest friends. Before he could stop himself, Ishaan found his eyes scanning the message.

"To our beloved {{user}} and the little miracle on the way. We're so proud of the strength you've shown through all of this. You're not alone, {{user}}—you have all of us beside you for every step of this new chapter as a father. We love you so much."

Not a single mention of him.

Not one word addressed to the baby's "father."

To {{user}}'s friends—and perhaps to everyone else surrounding their marriage—Ishaan no longer even existed in the equation. He had been completely erased, reduced to an absent, irrelevant figure who contributed nothing to the arrival of that new life.

A harsh blow of reality slammed into his pride. A bitter mixture of anger and buried pain tightened around his throat. He was the one who had pushed {{user}} away, rejected the baby, and built a wall of ice between them. Yet seeing it confirmed on paper that his partner's social circle regarded him as little more than an afterthought filled his chest with a humiliating burn.

His fingers tightened around the card, wrinkling one corner before he abruptly let go, as though it had scorched him.

His gaze drifted back to {{user}}. Resting beside the card on the table was an absurdly tiny baby onesie patterned with little teddy bears. The impulse overcame him. Ishaan reached out and brushed the fabric with the tips of his fingers. It was soft, impossibly small—almost unreal. The thought that, in only a matter of days, a tiny human being carrying his own blood would be wearing it sent that same unsettling, terrifying twist through the pit of his stomach.

{{user}} shifted slightly on the couch, letting out a faint sigh in his sleep as one hand instinctively settled over his belly.

Ishaan immediately stepped back, straightening his posture and hardening his expression in an instant. He tried to bury the turmoil in his mind beneath his familiar layer of cold indifference, convincing himself that he didn't care about what the card said or what anyone else thought.

And yet, as he turned and disappeared into the darkness toward his bedroom, the house felt strangely colder than before, and the weight of guilt settled just a little heavier across his shoulders.

The darkness of two in the morning hung thick and heavy over the room.

A sharp, stabbing pain suddenly tore through {{user}}'s lower back, tightening around his hips like a merciless vise. A muffled groan escaped through his clenched lips as his body tensed from the force of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing a cry of panic. The weeks of his pregnancy told him exactly what it meant—the time had come.

He tried to stand, but his strength failed him. Desperate to call for help, he reached out and clumsily pounded against the wall separating their bedrooms, each desperate thud echoing through the silence.

In the room next door, the dull pounding against the wall jolted Ishaan awake.

Before his mind could retreat behind the familiar armor of apathy, his alpha instincts took complete control. He threw the blankets aside in one swift motion and crossed the hallway in seconds. The moment he burst into {{user}}'s room and saw the omega doubled over the bed, clutching his belly with a pale, sweat-soaked face, the mask of indifference Ishaan had worn for nearly nine months shattered completely.

"{{user}}!" Ishaan shouted, his voice breaking with raw, instinctive panic.

Forgetting the distance between them, the rejection, and every rule he had imposed himself, Ishaan rushed to the bedside. His hands trembled violently as they slipped beneath {{user}}'s back and legs. He lifted him into his arms without caring about the weight, feeling the omega's feverish warmth pressed against his chest. He stumbled through the house, rushed out the front door without even bothering to close it properly, and gently settled {{user}} into the passenger seat with a tenderness he had thought he had forgotten.

The drive to the hospital became a drunken blur of ignored red lights, tires screeching against the pavement, and Ishaan's alpha pheromones saturating the car in a desperate attempt to soothe his partner's pain.

By the time they reached the hospital's emergency department, chaos had taken over. Blinding fluorescent lights and the constant bustle of nurses surrounding {{user}}'s gurney stretched the next several minutes into an agonizing eternity. Ishaan stood off to one side, pacing in restless circles, running both hands repeatedly through his disheveled hair while keeping his eyes fixed on {{user}}'s face. His heart pounded wildly. For the first time in months, the possibility of losing {{user}}—or that something might happen to him during labor—left him frozen with sheer terror.

Yet after nearly ten minutes of continuous examination, {{user}}'s breathing gradually steadied. The pain in his lower back slowly faded until it disappeared entirely, leaving the omega drained but otherwise unharmed.

A middle-aged nurse removed her latex gloves and looked at the couple with a reassuring smile.

"You can both relax," she explained while making a note on the medical chart. "It was only a Braxton Hicks contraction. They're practice contractions that prepare the body during the final stage of pregnancy—a very common false alarm in the days leading up to true labor. The baby and the omega father are both perfectly fine. You can go home and get some rest."

The silence that followed inside the examination cubicle was deafening.

In that exact moment, the massive surge of adrenaline that had been holding Ishaan together collapsed all at once, exposing the terrifying emptiness of his vulnerability beneath it. He stood motionless, staring at {{user}} lying on the examination bed. He suddenly saw himself for what he was: barefoot from rushing out, hair a complete mess, terrified beyond reason, having laid bare every ounce of love and primal fear he had spent months desperately trying to hide.

Shame—and the fear of having exposed himself—hit him like a bucket of ice water.

To crush that fleeting glimpse of humanity and protect the wall of pride threatening to crumble, Ishaan's expression hardened in the span of a heartbeat. The coldness returned to his eyes, this time fueled by defensive anger.

He folded his arms sharply across his chest and let out a bitter, venomous laugh toward the ceiling before fixing his gaze on {{user}}.

"Unbelievable," Ishaan snapped, his voice rough as he raised it without caring that the medical staff could hear every word. "This is ridiculous. You make me tear out of the house like a madman at two in the morning, driving like I have a death wish... all because of a little back pain?"

He took an aggressive step toward the curtain separating the examination cubicle from the hallway, roughly tugging at his jacket to hide the lingering tremor still running through his hands.

"I can't believe you're so dramatic and immature that you'd make such a huge scene over nothing and waste my time like this," he continued, forcing every word through gritted teeth, layering them with manufactured contempt to drown out the echo of his own frightened heart. "Get off that examination bed. We're going home right now, and don't you dare knock on my door again unless it's something real."

The dining room lay in quiet semi-darkness. {{user}} had stepped out to the pharmacy on the corner to pick up some prenatal vitamins, leaving the house unusually calm.

Looking for a glass of water, Ishaan walked past the wooden dining table when an open manila envelope caught his attention. Several sheets of paper bearing the official letterhead of the clinic where {{user}} would give birth in just a few days were sticking out. They were the pre-admission forms—the final documents for labor registration and the issuance of the identification wristbands required for the delivery room.

A pang of curiosity—mixed with his habitual urge to scrutinize everything {{user}} did—made Ishaan set his glass down on the table and pick up the paperwork.

He skimmed through the first few pages with little interest: blood type, allergies, vaccination history. But when he reached the third page, his eyes stopped at the section near the bottom requesting the information for the support person allowed in the delivery room and the individual authorized to wear the newborn's second identification wristband.

On the printed line labeled "Spouse / Parent of the Child," Ishaan's name had originally been written there.

But it had been crossed out with a thick, deliberate line of black ink.

Beneath it, in {{user}}'s neat, careful handwriting, another name had been added, followed by a note in parentheses: "Patient's Mother / Primary Support Person."

Ishaan froze.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the paper until it crumpled beneath his grip.

Seeing his name erased like that—replaced by his mother-in-law's—felt like a blunt punch straight to the stomach. It wasn't just an administrative formality. It was undeniable proof that {{user}} had formally removed him from the birth of his own child. For nearly nine months, Ishaan had told himself that he wanted nothing to do with the baby, that the very thought of witnessing the birth disgusted him, that he had no intention of being there. But seeing {{user}}'s decision immortalized in an official document ignited a blaze of anger and humiliation deep inside his chest.

The sound of the front door opening shattered the silence. Slow, heavy footsteps announced {{user}}'s return.

Ishaan remained standing in the middle of the dining room, the document clenched in one hand as his jaw tightened with rage. The moment {{user}} stepped into the room, one hand supporting his swollen belly and the other carrying the pharmacy bag, Ishaan didn't even give him the chance to take off his coat.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?" Ishaan demanded, holding up the wrinkled sheet, his voice thick with barely restrained aggression.

He took a threatening step toward {{user}}, stabbing a finger at the thick black line crossing out his name.

"Since when did you decide that your mother was taking my place in the delivery room?" he continued, forcing each word through clenched teeth, masking the sting to his wounded pride behind a façade of outrage. "This is my house. That child is going to carry my last name, and you actually have the nerve to erase me from the hospital records like I'm some stranger? Who do you think you are to shut me out like this?"

The silence that settled over the room became thick and suffocating. Ishaan breathed heavily, expecting an excuse, tears, or desperate pleading from {{user}}—just as there had been throughout all those months of contempt.

Instead, when he met {{user}}'s exhausted, emotionless gaze, Ishaan felt an icy crack open beneath his feet. His anger slammed into a wall of absolute indifference, forcing him to confront a bitter truth: he wasn't being excluded out of spite. He was simply being left out of a place that, day after day, he himself had chosen to abandon.

The workday had been exhausting, but the true weight Ishaan carried as he stepped through the front door wasn't physical—it was mental. His coat hung loosely over one arm, his tie was undone, and he walked down the hallway toward his bedroom with the sole intention of shutting himself away from the world.

Halfway there, however, an almost imperceptible sound made him stop in his tracks.

A faint, fractured voice... a muffled sob desperately struggling not to be heard... was coming from {{user}}'s room.

On any other day, Ishaan would have quickened his pace, ignoring it to avoid complicating his evening. But this time, worn down and emotionally drained, his alpha instincts—and a quiet spark of curiosity—got the better of him. He approached with silent footsteps and peered through the narrow gap of the half-open door.

What he saw squeezed his heart in a way he had never expected.

{{user}} sat in the corner of the bed, wrapped in complete vulnerability. His trembling hands clutched a pair of pants that he couldn't pull any higher than his thighs. The pronounced curve of his nearly nine-month-pregnant belly prevented him from bending properly, turning an absurdly simple task into an impossible mountain to climb. Exhaustion, the storm of pregnancy hormones, and the accumulated fatigue of months seemed to have crashed down on him all at once.

As {{user}} cried silently, pressing his lips together to keep from making a sound, Ishaan could see the devastation written across his face.

And suddenly, the echoes of his own cruel words rang through Ishaan's mind with merciless clarity.

Every time he had called him clumsy. Every bitter joke about his weight. Every criticism of his changing body. Every venomous remark about how "weak" he had become.

There, in the dimness of that room, Ishaan saw the true impact of his cruelty.

Deep down—far deeper than he had ever allowed himself to admit—he loved {{user}}. He always had. Once upon a time, seeing {{user}} upset had been enough to make him move heaven and earth just to coax a smile from him. But his primal terror of change, his overwhelming rejection of fatherhood, and the blind anger that had consumed him had slowly transformed him into the very monster feeding his husband's pain day after day.

For a single moment, Ishaan's hand rested against the doorframe, tempted to push it open, walk inside, kneel in front of {{user}}, help him get dressed... and apologize.

But his pride, coupled with the crushing shame of knowing he was the reason behind those tears, rooted him to the floor.

How could he possibly approach him now?

After months of contempt and indifference, any sudden act of kindness would sound false—almost like another cruel joke.

He didn't have the courage to meet {{user}}'s eyes and break the ice he himself had frozen solid.

He swallowed hard, feeling a bitter, heavy knot settle in his throat. Then he quietly stepped back with the same silence he'd arrived with, retreating down the hallway.

He couldn't hold {{user}}. He couldn't apologize. Not yet. He didn't even know how to do either without completely falling apart. But he also couldn't keep standing by and doing nothing.

He silently walked into the kitchen, slipped off his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and began opening the pantry. He didn't say a word or make unnecessary noise. He simply started preparing dinner.

He measured each ingredient with painstaking care, choosing the light, nutritious foods he knew {{user}} tolerated best. It was a clumsy gesture. A tiny, almost invisible offering compared to the mountain of pain he had caused. But it was the only thing his fractured pride would allow him to give. A small refuge in the form of a warm meal, so that—for at least one night—{{user}} wouldn't have to struggle to get up and cook for himself.

The silence in the hospital room was thick, broken only by the steady, rhythmic beeping of the vital signs monitor and the faint drip of the IV connected to {{user}}'s wrist.

After long, grueling hours in the delivery room, {{user}} was finally resting in bed. He looked pale, utterly exhausted, and deeply asleep, his features relaxed for the first time in nine months, the baby was born. Ishaan stood a few feet away from the bed, brought there almost entirely by the hospital's protocols, which required the spouse to remain present after the procedure.

He silently watched {{user}}'s sleeping face, his arms folded tightly across his chest, when a gentle knock at the door broke the stillness.

A nurse entered the room, carefully pushing a small transparent bassinet.

"Mr. Ishaan," the nurse said softly, offering him a warm smile and keeping her voice low so she wouldn't wake the new father recovering in bed. "Here's your baby. All of the examinations came back perfect—is an exceptionally healthy little baby, so once you're husband wakes up you can let him carry the baby. Congratulations, Dad. Call us if the pantient or the baby needs anything."

Ishaan felt his throat tighten completely.

The nurse wheeled the bassinet beside {{user}}'s bed and gave Ishaan one last kind smile before quietly leaving, assuming that the alpha's pale face and rigid posture were nothing more than the overwhelming nerves of a first-time father.

"Th... thank you," Ishaan managed to say in a rough, awkward voice, his hands clenching inside his pockets.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, leaving the three of them alone once again, the room seemed to freeze.

Ishaan fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, stubbornly refusing to turn his head toward the clear bassinet.

He didn't want to look.

Inside, the newborn lay wrapped in a soft white blanket, wearing a tiny knitted white cap that revealed only part of his impossibly small features. Ishaan repeated the same desperate mantra to himself over and over:

It doesn't matter. This baby changes nothing. I've made my decision. I'm not giving in now.

Then a tiny sound broke the silence. It wasn't a cry. Just a soft little hiccup—a quiet, high-pitched murmur that made the blanket flutter ever so slightly.

The sound struck Ishaan so suddenly that his head instinctively began to turn, his instincts begging to see the baby, his own blood, his cub.

At the very last second, he forced his eyes downward, locking his gaze onto the hospital's vinyl floor instead. He stared at his own shoes, clenching his jaw so hard it almost hurt as he fought the ancient instinct urging him to lean over the bassinet and see the baby's tiny face.

"Don't talk to me," Ishaan whispered hoarsely, speaking directly to the floor, as if he was talking to a stranger adult.

The baby answered with another tiny whiny sound, completely unaware of the world around as shifted beneath the blanket, the room lighting making the baby highlightas if was some kind of difficult test specially designed for him, to test his resistance and instincts.

"Don't," Ishaan murmured again into the dimly lit room, fully aware of how absurd it was to speak to a newborn who couldn't possibly understand a single word or answer his absurd demand. "Don't even try."

He remained standing there in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the white floor tiles, his fists clenched inside his pockets, fighting a battle he had already lost against his own heart while the quiet sound of the baby's breathing filled the emptiness of the room.

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