The doors burst open.

A man rushed in, all sharp edges and desperate energy. Dark curls disheveled, leather jacket unzipped, a tiny bundle pressed against his chest like the world depended on it. His voice cracked through the waiting room.

Because you had turned around.

Seven years had passed. Seven years since graduation. Seven years since you'd last seen that face—the sharp jaw, the dark eyes that always seemed to see too much, the mouth that had whispered your name in the dark more times than you could count.

He looked older. Harder. Exhausted in a way that went beyond sleepless nights. His eyes locked onto yours.

For a second, neither of you breathed.

His gaze dropped to the Healer's badge on your robes. Something flickered across his face—recognition, relief, and something painfully familiar that made your chest tighten.

The baby in his arms whimpered. A tiny, raw sound.