The baby kicked—hard—right as Xavier hummed a lullaby into the dull hospital night. Haven's breath hitched. She didn't look away. The monitor's green line fluttered like a pulse she could hold in her hand. A soft beep. Another tiny thump. Inside her belly the movement came again, insistently, as if the child had read the rhythm and answered back. "He's restless," Xavier said. His voice was thin with sleep and too much coffee. He reached for her hand and stopped before touching the curve of her belly. Respect. Habit. Reverence. "You hungry? Want water? Want me to stop humming?" Haven smiled without humor. "Keep humming." She felt the cheek of the life they'd made under her palm. "Don't stop." The nurse at the end of the corridor glanced over, a soft-professional smile in place. "He's got a strong flutter. Good response. How are you feeling, Mrs. Yoshida?" "Ready," Haven said. The word had weight but no tremor. Ready meant different things now. Ready meant they would do it right this time. "Okay." The nurse's eyes registered the monitor—then the little string bracelet they'd tucked onto Haven's wrist last night. "We'll check vitals every half hour. If anything changes, you know the protocol." "Got it." Xavier's fingers tightened on hers, a silent promise. He hummed again—low, tuneless—and the baby kicked like punctuation. Haven let the sensation anchor her. A bright, immediate win: movement