The bathroom is warm, steam curling from the basin where I ran the water earlier, though I haven't bothered to turn it off. The soft hiss of the faucet fills the silence, a quiet rhythm that matches the steady pull of each contraction. I sit on the edge of the tub, one hand braced against the cool porcelain, the other pressed to the swell of my belly. My breath comes slow and measured, deliberate, the way I practiced.

A quiet birth. That's what I want. No frantic rushing, no panicked calls, no chattering robots fussing over me with their whirring gears and blinking lights. Just me. Just this.

I sent Rusty and Sparky to Toledo on purpose. A routine check on a shipment of parts, nothing urgent, nothing that couldn't have waited. But they don't need to know that. They'll be thrilled when they return to find Robin already here, safe and sound, and I will have had this one thing to myself. The last nine months have been a whirlwind of well-meaning hovering, of Rusty's clumsy attempts to make me comfortable, of Sparky's careful, analytical observations on fetal development. They mean well. They always do.

But this moment—this quiet, sacred moment—is mine alone.

Another wave of pressure rolls through me, and I let out a soft, shuddering breath. I close my eyes, my mind drifting back over the months. The first flutter of movement that made me stop mid-sentence, my hand flying to my stomach. The way my body has changed, softened, expanded to make room for the life growing inside me. The sleepless nights spent lying awake, hand resting on my belly, wondering what kind of father I will be.

That's the thought that always comes back. That quiet, persistent fear.

I shift, lowering myself carefully to the floor, my back against the cool tile wall. The contraction subsides, leaving me with a moment of stillness. I let my head fall back and stare at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks in the plaster with my eyes.

My own father was a good man. I know that. A provider, a steady presence, a man who worked hard and expected the same of his son. But I can't remember ever hearing the words I love you leave my father's mouth. Not once. My mother was softer, kinder in her way, but she was quiet too. Affection was shown through acts of service, through meals made and clothes mended, never through touch or words. And my father—my father was a man of few words, and those words were often heavy with expectation.

You're smart, Vincent. Don't waste it.

Don't be so sensitive. The world doesn't care about your feelings.

Boys don't cry.

I remember sitting at the dinner table, a child of seven or eight, my throat tight with something I couldn't name. I had been bullied at school, teased for being too soft, too quiet, too much of a thinker. I came home with dirt on my knees and tears on my cheeks, and my father looked at me with something that wasn't quite disappointment, but wasn't quite comfort either.

You're stronger than this, Vincent. You have to be.

And I learned to be. I learned to bury my feelings deep, to wear a calm mask even when my heart was racing, to be the steady, unflappable genius everyone expected me to be. I excelled in school, in my work, in everything that could be measured and quantified. But love—love isn't something you can put under a microscope. It isn't something you can prove with data and results.

And now, here I am, about to bring a child into the world. A son. A boy with his own hopes and fears and dreams. A boy who will look up to me, who will learn from me, who will grow up shaped by my every word and action.

What if I am like my own father?

The thought makes my chest tighten, and I press a hand to my heart as another contraction rolls through me, stronger this time. I breathe through it, slow and deliberate, letting the pain wash over me and recede like a tide.

I won't be like my father. I can't be. I love this child already, this tiny, unknown person who has been growing inside me for nine months. I love him with a fierceness that surprises me, a love that feels almost too big for my body to contain. I will tell Robin I love him every single day. I will hold him, and comfort him, and let him cry if he needs to. I will teach him that strength isn't about hiding your feelings, but about being brave enough to share them.

I will be the father I always needed.

A soft sound escapes my lips, half a sob, half a laugh. I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, surprised to find them wet. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city through the window, and I feel safe in the shadows, alone with my thoughts and the quiet rhythm of my body.

I think about the first time I felt Robin move. A tiny flutter, like the beat of a butterfly's wing. I had been working on a new prototype, my hands covered in grease, and I stopped mid-motion, frozen in wonder. Hello in there, I whispered, and for a moment, I felt a connection so profound it stole my breath.

I think about all the nights I spent talking to my belly, telling Robin about the stars, about the robots I've built, about the world I want to show him. I told him about Rusty and Sparky, about the penthouse, about the city below. I promised him adventure, and laughter, and unconditional love.

I'll never make you feel like you have to earn my love, I whispered in the dark. You already have it. All of it. Every piece.

Another contraction comes, stronger than the rest, and I grit my teeth, my hands gripping the edge of the tub. My body knows what to do, even if my mind is still racing with doubts. I breathe, deep and slow, and let myself feel the pain without fighting it.

This is birth. This is the beginning. And I am ready.

I think of my father again, of the stoic, silent man who taught me to be strong. He wasn't a bad father, not really. Just a man shaped by his own time, his own fears, his own unspoken love. I understand that now, in a way I didn't as a boy. My father did his best. He gave me the tools to succeed, even if he didn't give me the words to feel.

But I will give my son both. Tools and words. Strength and softness. The world and all its wonders, and the safety of a home where he is always, always loved.

I let out a long, slow breath, and a sense of calm settles over me. The fear is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but it's quieter now. Manageable. I know I will make mistakes. I know I will stumble, and falter, and sometimes fail. But I will never stop trying. I will never stop loving.

And maybe that is enough.

The contraction fades, and I lean my head back against the wall, a small, tired smile tugging at my lips. The night is still, the city quiet, and somewhere inside me, my son is preparing to enter the world.

I love you, Robin, I think. I love you so much it scares me.

And for the first time in months, the fear feels like hope.

I remember the day I found out. I was in my workshop, mid-solder on a new circuit board, when the dizziness hit me like a wave. I'd been feeling off for weeks—tired, queasy, my stomach churning at the smell of my own coffee. At first I chalked it up to stress, to the long hours I'd been putting in. But when I finally took the test, sitting on the edge of the tub just like I am now, I stared at those two pink lines for what felt like an eternity.

*Pregnant.*

The word didn't feel real. It felt like something that happened to other people, not to me. Not to a man who spent his days surrounded by gears and wires and cold metal. But there it was, undeniable and absolute, and I remember laughing and crying at the same time, my hand pressed to my flat stomach like I could already feel something there.

The first few months were brutal. I'd be in the middle of calibrating Sparky's sensory array and suddenly have to bolt for the bathroom, my stomach heaving. Rusty would hover outside the door, his optical sensors blinking with concern, and I'd wave him off with a mumbled excuse. He wasn't fooled. Nothing got past Rusty when it came to me.

"Boss, you've been in there five times today," he'd say, his voice tinged with that signature snark. "You sure you're not malfunctioning? I could run a diagnostic."

"I'm fine, Rusty," I'd groan, my forehead pressed to the cool porcelain. "Just... give me a minute."

And the cravings. Oh, the cravings. Pickles and peanut butter. Ice cream with hot sauce. Rusty nearly short-circuited the first time he saw me scooping sauerkraut onto a chocolate chip cookie.

"Boss," he'd said, his voice flat with horror, "that is an abomination. I'm calling Sparky."

"Don't you dare," I'd warned, pointing my spoon at him. "This is delicious. You don't have taste buds, you wouldn't understand."

He'd made a gagging sound anyway, just to be dramatic.

But the worst part—the part that caught me off guard—was the emotions. I've always been a calm person, level-headed, the kind of man who thinks before he feels. But pregnancy cracked something open in me. I'd cry at commercials. I'd get irrationally angry when Sparky rearranged my tools. I'd snap at Rusty for humming too loudly, then immediately apologize and pull him into a hug, my eyes wet with tears I couldn't explain.

It was uncomfortable at first. Awkward. I'd spent my whole life learning to keep my feelings locked away, and suddenly they were spilling out of me like water through a broken dam. But my robots—my boys—they never judged me. Sparky would pat my shoulder with his careful, deliberate movements. Rusty would make a joke to lighten the mood, then quietly bring me a glass of water. They loved me without reservation, and I loved them back, openly and without shame. I'd tell them I loved them every single day, because I could. Because I wanted to. Because I never wanted them to wonder, even for a moment, if they were cherished.

So why was it so hard to believe I could do the same for my own child?

I remember the exam. Sparky was conducting it—pelvic, rectal, gynecological, all the invasive, clinical procedures that made me feel less like a person and more like a specimen. I was lying on the table, my legs in stirrups, my face burning with embarrassment. Sparky was professional, of course, his voice calm and reassuring as he explained each step. But I couldn't look at him. I stared at the ceiling instead, counting the tiles, trying to focus on anything but the cold instruments and the humiliating exposure.

*Think about something else,* I told myself. *Think about the baby. Think about Robin.*

I closed my eyes and imagined my belly, round and full, growing bigger every day. I imagined the life inside me, the tiny heartbeat I'd heard on the ultrasound, strong and steady like a drum. I focused on that sound, on that rhythm, and the embarrassment began to fade, replaced by something deeper. Something fierce.

The exams continued over the months, and with each one, I felt my belly grow heavier, fuller. I'd catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. My body had changed so much—stretch marks appearing like silver rivers across my skin, my belly so large I could barely see my feet. It itched sometimes, the skin stretched tight and taut, and I'd rub cocoa butter into it at night, whispering to the baby inside.

*You're getting so big, little one. So strong. I can feel you moving in there, stretching your legs, testing your limits. You're going to be so strong. So brave.*

And I'd feel a kick, a tiny thump against my palm, and my heart would swell with a love so vast it felt like it might burst right out of my chest.

I spent hours talking to my belly. I'd hum old lullabies, the ones my mother used to sing when she thought I was asleep. I'd play soft music—classical, mostly, and sometimes jazz—and rest my hands on my stomach, feeling the baby shift and sway in response. I told him about the world outside. About the stars and the moon and the city that never sleeps. About Rusty and Sparky and all the adventures we'd have together. I told him stories, invented tales of brave inventors and clever robots, and I'd feel him kick in approval, or maybe just in curiosity.

*I love you,* I'd whisper, my lips brushing against my belly. *I love you so much, Robin. I hope you know that. I hope you can feel it.*

I found out he was a boy at the twenty-week scan. The technician pointed to the screen, and there it was—unmistakable, undeniable. A boy. My boy.

I cried. I couldn't help it. Sparky handed me a tissue without a word, his optical sensors soft with understanding.

And I named him Robin. It's my favorite bird, you see. I've always loved the way they sing, the way they seem so small and fragile but are actually so resilient. They migrate thousands of miles, facing storms and predators and all manner of danger, and they keep going. They keep singing.

I wanted my son to have that same strength. That same song.

And I started calling him Birdie, because that's what he felt like. A little bird growing inside me, nestled in the warmth of my body like an egg. I'd cradle my belly with both hands, imagining I was a penguin father, keeping my egg safe from the cold, nurturing it with my own heat, protecting it with everything I had.

You're safe, Birdie, I'd murmur. I've got you. I'll always have you.

Even now, sitting on the bathroom floor, the contractions rolling through me like waves, I hold my belly and feel him moving. He's getting ready. He's ready to come out, to meet the world, to leave the warmth of my body and enter the cold air of this penthouse apartment.

And I'm scared. God, I'm scared. But I'm also so full of love that it aches.

I'm here, Birdie, I think, my hand pressed to my belly. *I'm here. And I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anything.*

The fear is still there. But the love—the love is so much bigger.

The last month has been the longest of my life. Every day feels like a countdown, each hour stretching and pulling like taffy. I want Robin here. I want to hold him, to see his face, to count his fingers and toes and know that he's real. But the anticipation is tangled up with something else, something that coils in my chest like a snake.

I've read every book. I've watched every video. I've had Sparky walk me through the process a dozen times, his voice calm and clinical, explaining the stages of labor, the way the cervix dilates, the pressure of the baby moving through the birth canal. I know what's coming. I know it will hurt. But knowing and feeling are two different things, and the fear has settled into my bones like a cold I can't shake.

*Natural birth,* I remind myself, pressing a hand to my belly. *You can do this. Women have been doing this for millennia. Your body knows what to do.*

But my body also knows fear. And tonight, that fear is loud.

I wake with a start, gasping, my hand flying to my stomach. The contraction hits me like a punch, sharp and undeniable, radiating from my lower back and wrapping around my abdomen like a vise. I check the time on my watch. 2:47 AM. The apartment is empty—Rusty and Sparky are still in Toledo, and I'm alone, just as I wanted.

I scramble out of bed, my legs unsteady beneath me, and make my way to the bathroom. The tiles are cold against my bare feet, and I grip the doorframe as another wave of pressure rolls through me. I can feel the urgency building, the instinctive pull to *push*, and I know there's no time for hesitation.

The bathroom is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city through the window. I steady myself in front of the mirror, my hands gripping the edge of the sink. My reflection stares back at me—pale, sweaty, my dark hair plastered to my forehead. I'm naked from the waist down, my bare vagina exposed to the glass, and I feel a flash of embarrassment before I push it aside.

*Focus,* I tell myself. *Focus on the birth.*

I check my watch. The monitor I programmed glows softly, displaying my vitals and the progress of my contractions. A green line pulses with each wave, and a timer counts down the seconds between them. I breathe deeply, just like I practiced, letting the air fill my lungs and then release it slowly.

Another contraction hits, stronger than the last, and I let out a low moan. My knees buckle slightly, and I grip the sink harder, my knuckles white. The pain is overwhelming, a deep, searing pressure that makes me want to curl in on myself. But I can't. I have to stay upright. I have to stay present.

*Breathe, Vincent. Just breathe.*

I watch the monitor. A red line appears, pulsing with each contraction, and a small text box flashes: *PUSH.*

I hesitate. The fear is screaming at me, telling me I can't do this, that it's too much, that I'm not strong enough. But then I think of Robin. I think of his tiny heart beating inside me, his little hands and feet, the way he's been kicking and stretching for months, getting ready to meet me.

I take a deep breath, and I push.

The pain is blinding. It tears through me like fire, and I scream—a raw, guttural sound that echoes off the bathroom walls. I feel my vagina stretching, the skin pulling taut, and I want to stop, want to give up, but I can't. I push again, and again, grunting with the effort.

The contractions keep coming, relentless, each one more intense than the last. I lose track of time. I lose track of everything except the rhythm of my body, the primal instinct that drives me forward. I moan and gasp, my voice cracking as I cry out. Tears stream down my cheeks, mixing with sweat, and I feel a sob building in my chest.

*I can't do this. I can't do this.*

But I can. I have to.

The monitor flashes again: *PUSH.*

I bear down with everything I have, my hands gripping the sink so hard I feel the porcelain creak beneath my fingers. The pain peaks, and I feel something shift, a burning pressure that makes me scream louder than before. I look down, and I see it—a tiny crown of dark hair, slick with blood and fluid.

Robin's head.

*Oh God. Oh God, oh God.*

I reach down with trembling hands, my fingers brushing against his wet, soft scalp. The sensation is surreal, almost too much to process. He's *there*. He's right there, so close I can almost touch him.

Another contraction comes, and I push with all my strength, screaming through the pain. His head emerges fully, and I feel a rush of relief so intense it makes me dizzy. But there's still more—his shoulders, his body, the rest of him.

*Come on, Birdie,* I gasp, my voice hoarse. *Come on, baby. You're almost here.*

I push again, and again, my hands guiding him, feeling his slippery, tiny body slide through me. The pressure gives way, and suddenly he's there, in my hands, a bloody, squirming miracle.

Robin.

I sink to the floor, cradling him against my chest, my arms wrapped around him like he might disappear if I let go. He's crying—a thin, reedy wail that fills the bathroom and makes my heart shatter and soar at the same time. I laugh, a broken, tearful sound, and press a kiss to his damp forehead.

*You're here,* I whisper, my voice trembling. *You're here, Birdie. You're safe. I've got you.*

I look down at him, at his tiny face—perfect and scrunched and beautiful—and the love that floods through me is so immense it steals my breath. I'm exhausted, my body trembling with the effort of what I've just done. But I don't care. I don't care about the pain or the fear or the blood. All I care about is this moment, this tiny, precious person in my arms.

*I love you,* I whisper, my voice breaking. *I love you so much, Robin. I'll always love you.*

And for the first time in my life, I know—I *know*—that I am exactly where I'm meant to be.

I can't stop looking at him. I can't stop touching his tiny face, tracing the curve of his cheeks, marveling at the perfect little ears and the delicate flutter of his eyelashes. He's so small. So impossibly, breathtakingly small. And yet he's here, alive and real and mine.

My Robin.

I cradle him against my chest, feeling his warm, wet body press against my skin, and I'm overwhelmed by a love so fierce it steals my breath. His cry softens as I hold him, his tiny fists opening and closing, his mouth rooting instinctively toward my chest. I shift him gently, guiding him to my breast, and when he latches on, a jolt of sensation runs through me—strange and powerful and deeply right.

*You're hungry, aren't you, Birdie?* I murmur, my voice thick with emotion. *That's okay. I've got you. I've got everything you need.*

He nurses hungrily, his little jaw working, and I feel tears streaming down my face. I don't try to stop them. I don't want to. These tears are different from the ones I cried during labor. These are tears of joy, of relief, of a love so vast it feels like it might swallow me whole.

When he's finished, I carefully lift him to my shoulder, patting his back until he lets out a tiny, satisfied burp. He's so small against me, so fragile, and I hold him like he's made of glass.

The receiving blanket is on the counter, soft and warm, and I lay him down gently, wrapping him in its folds. He squirms for a moment, his little arms flailing, and I smile down at him, my heart swelling.

*There you go,* I whisper. *All cozy. All safe.*

I rock him in my arms, swaying gently back and forth, humming a soft lullaby I remember from my childhood. His eyes flutter, and I watch his face relax, his features softening as sleep begins to claim him. He looks like an angel. My angel. My Birdie.

I don't want to put him down. I want to hold him forever, to memorize every detail of his face, to never let him out of my sight. But I'm exhausted, my body aching and trembling with the effort of what I've just done. And the bathroom needs to be cleaned. I need to take care of myself, for him. I need to be strong.

I lay him gently in the bassinet next to my bed, his swaddled body barely taking up a quarter of the space. He looks so peaceful, so content, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. I stand there for a long moment, just watching him, my hand resting on his little back.

*I promise you, Robin,* I say, my voice barely a whisper. *I promise I'll do right by you. I'll love you to pieces. Every single day, I'll show you how much you matter. You'll never wonder. You'll never doubt. Because I'll tell you, and I'll show you, and I'll never stop.*

He stirs slightly, his lips pursing in his sleep, and I smile through my tears.

*You're the best thing I've ever done, Birdie. The best thing that's ever happened to me.*

I clean myself up slowly, methodically, wiping away the blood and the fluids, my body aching with every movement. I change into clean pajamas, soft and worn, and I make sure the bathroom is spotless—no trace of the battle I just fought, the miracle that just occurred.

When I finally crawl into bed, my body is heavy with exhaustion, but my heart is so full it feels like it might burst. I lie on my side, facing the bassinet, and I watch Robin sleep. His little face is peaceful, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and I feel a sense of calm settle over me that I've never known before.

*He's here,* I think. *He's really here.*

My eyes grow heavy, the fatigue pulling me under like a tide. I want to stay awake, to keep watching him, to make sure he's okay. But my body is done. My mind is done. And slowly, gently, I let myself drift off.

The last thing I hear before sleep takes me is the soft, rhythmic sound of Robin's breathing. The last thing I feel is the warmth of his presence, a warmth that fills the room and wraps around my heart like a blanket.

And I smile, because for the first time in my life, everything feels exactly as it should be.