iris

Beloved

The day started slow, like it always did now. You stirred, still half-asleep, until you felt the familiar weight of a hand against your hip. When your eyes blinked open, there he was—Suguru—propped up on one elbow, long hair tumbling messily over his shoulders, watching you with the kind of smile that could soften stone.

“Morning, mama,” he said, his voice husky, the kind of sound that made your chest ache in the sweetest way. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering like he didn’t want to move.

You groaned softly, tugging the blanket higher. “Why are you awake before me again?”

He smirked, brushing strands of hair from your face. “Because I like watching you. You look… peaceful.” You shoved at him weakly, cheeks warming. “Creep.”

But he caught your hand before you could retreat, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His smile softened again, and you melted instantly.

At three months pregnant, mornings were hard. Your body was still adjusting, exhaustion clung to you, and waves of nausea came and went like an uninvited guest. But Suguru had slipped into caretaker mode so naturally that it felt like he was built for this.

“Hungry?” he asked, already knowing the answer “Yes,” you admitted, “but I’m too tired to move.”

He chuckled, kissed your temple, and slipped from bed. You watched him pad into the kitchen, his tall frame moving with ease, hair swaying down his back. The faint clink of dishes carried back to the bedroom, along with the low hum of his voice.

When he returned, he carried a tray: warm toast cut neatly in triangles, a bowl of fruit, and steaming tea with just enough honey to calm your stomach. He set it carefully on the nightstand, then slid back into bed, balancing the tray between you.

“Breakfast in bed,” he declared with a little flourish. You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re spoiling me.” “Not spoiling,” he corrected, feeding you a piece of apple. “Taking care of my girl.” God you always melt at that.

The tenderness in his voice made your throat tight. You chewed slowly, savoring both the fruit and the feeling of being loved so thoroughly.

⸻

The rain started in the afternoon, soft at first, then steady, tapping against the windows like fingertips. Suguru lit a couple of candles on the coffee table, their glow flickering against the fairy lights strung along the wall. The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and the jasmine tea he’d brewed, steam curling up from the mugs in front of you.

He insisted on wrapping you in the softest blanket, the oversized knit one he’d gotten just because you mentioned once how cozy it looked in a store window. You curled into his side on the couch, blanket tucked around both of you, listening to the sound of the rain.

“Too hot?” he asked, adjusting the throw gently when you shifted. “No,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder. “Perfect.”

He draped an arm around you, palm instinctively coming to rest over your stomach. At three months, there wasn’t much to feel yet, but Suguru held you like there was already a whole little world growing there.

“Do you think it’s a girl or a boy?” you asked softly, eyes following the rain racing down the window.

He was quiet for a moment, then pressed a kiss to your hair. “Doesn’t matter. As long as they’re healthy. As long as they have your smile.”

You laughed, watery and small. “What if they get your stubbornness?”

“Then we’re doomed,” he teased, brushing his thumb against your cheek when he saw your eyes glisten.

Pregnancy hormones had made you emotional in unpredictable ways—sometimes you cried over commercials, sometimes over burnt toast. But Suguru never teased you about it, never made you feel silly. He just kissed your tears away and whispered that you were beautiful.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, hiding your face in his shirt. “Like what?”

“Like I hung the moon.”

“Maybe you did.”

Dinner was simple. Homemade miso soup, rice, and vegetables…because heavy food still made you queasy. Suguru cooked with his sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. Every few minutes, he’d glance over his shoulder at you sitting at the counter, chin propped on your palm, watching him with the kind of dreamy fondness you’d deny later.

“Stop staring,” he said without turning, a smile in his voice.

“Can’t,” you answered honestly.

When he finally set the bowls down, he guided you into your seat like you were fragile porcelain, then settled across from you, his knee brushing yours under the table. He didn’t eat until he saw you take the first bite.

Later, curled in bed again, rain still pattering against the glass, you shifted restlessly. Your back ached, your legs felt heavy. Suguru noticed before you even sighed.

“Here,” he murmured, pulling you gently to lie against him. His hands worked slow circles over your back, thumbs easing the tension from your shoulders, palms tracing warmth into your skin.

“Better?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Mm. You’re going to spoil me forever, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan.”

The room was dim, fairy lights glowing faintly in the corner, casting the softest shadows. You felt cocooned—by the blankets, by the rain, by him.

When your breathing began to even out, Suguru whispered into the quiet:

“You’re doing amazing, you know. I know it’s not easy. But you’re not alone. Never alone.”

His hand slid protectively over your stomach, resting there as though to shield both of you from the world. His voice dropped to a murmur, so soft you weren’t sure if you heard it or dreamed it.

“You and our little one… you’re everything.”

And with his heartbeat steady under your ear, the soft rain, and the flicker of candlelight, you thought maybe he was right. Maybe you had hung the moon…because in his eyes, you were the whole sky.