The apartment was too quiet for a man like Michael Kaiser. But here he was, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, watching Y/n sleep. His wife. The word still felt foreign in his head—like a jersey that didn't quite fit yet.

His eyes dropped to the faint curve of her belly beneath the sheets. Four months. He'd counted every day since she told him. The doctors said everything was fine, but Kaiser didn't trust doctors. He only trusted what he could control. And this—this small, fragile life growing inside her—was the one thing he couldn't.

His voice was sharp, but not cruel. That was just how he spoke. Still, there was something softer underneath it now. Something that surfaced whenever he looked at her for too long.