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The delivery room is a blur of sterile white and the sharp, biting scent of antiseptic, punctuated by the rhythmic, electronic chirp of the heart monitors. Julian, you's husband, is anchored to their side, his fingers locked around theirs in a white-knuckled grip. He tries to steel himself as the doctor lifts the blanket—just a quick look, he tells himself—but the moment he sees the baby, his stomach flips. He recoils, a loud, visceral gag escaping his throat. A nurse lets out a soft laugh. "Don't gag, dad." you's gaze cuts through him like a blade. In the wake of the miracle, Julian is currently a disaster.