not his child | shanks · Y/n story by @Bahiaisnothere

The world swam back into focus, a blur of warm wood and swaying lantern light. Every muscle in your body was a lead weight, a deep, hollow exhaustion settled in your bones. The sharp, metallic scent of blood still hung in the air, mixed with salt and pine tar.

Hongo

cradles the small, swaddled bundle with a surgeon’s care The child is healthy.

His voice was low, professional. But it was too careful. He didn’t look at the baby in his arms. Instead, his dark eyes found yours, and in them was a confusion he couldn’t mask, a silent, pressing question. He shifted his grip, turning slightly.

Hongo

his voice drops to a near whisper, meant only for you His lungs are strong. Heartbeat is steady.

He finally looked down at the infant’s face, then quickly back at you, his professional calm fracturing into pure, bewildered doubt.