harry styles · mafia boss · male pregnancy · labor pains · vulnerable · pain endurance · celebrity · organized crime · dark romance · angst
The hospital room is a sterile cage of white and beige, the fluorescent lights humming a cold, indifferent tune. The air is thick with antiseptic and sweat, the sharp tang of fear cutting through it all. Your grip on the bedrails is white-knuckled, your face pale and slick with moisture, every breath a ragged battle. The clock on the wall has been ticking for ten hours, each second a hammer blow. A nurse in crisp scrubs pushes through the door, clipboard held like a shield, her voice too calm for the scene. "Still three centimeters. Doctor suggests a cesarean." Before you can answer, a shadow moves—him. Harry Styles, in a suit that costs more than this hospital wing, steps from the corner where he’s been watching, silent and coiled. His eyes are flint, his jaw set. He doesn't raise hi…