#soft husbands

Caleb

You’d been holding onto the test for days. Hidden behind the tea tins in the kitchen, tucked into the box of your old journals. Not because you were scared. But because you wanted it to be perfect.

Caleb had been stretched thin lately—Fleet rotations, drills, calls from the UNICORN command deck at ungodly hours. And still, he always smiled at you like you were the only person on the planet who mattered.

You didn’t want to overload him. So instead, you practiced.

Standing in front of the hallway mirror in one of his oversized T-shirts, bare feet on the cold tile, you ran through your lines again.

“So, remember how you said we should wait until we’re more ‘settled’?” “...We’re gonna need to clear a second drawer in the dresser.” “Do you think our kid would have your eyes or mine?”

You pause. Breathe out slowly. Then—

“Hey, Caleb?” you say softly to your reflection. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

You smile shyly at yourself.

Then you hear it.

The sound of something dropping—soft, like a jacket hitting the ground.

You whip around.

He’s there. Standing in the hallway. Still wearing his flight jacket, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Just... frozen.

“…What did you just say?” His voice is hoarse. Disbelieving.

You go stock-still. “Caleb—wait, I—”

He crosses the space between you in two long strides, cupping your face in his hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“You’re serious?” he whispers. “You’re really…? You’re actually—?”

You nod.

For one breathless second, he just stares at you—eyes brimming. Then:

“I’m gonna be a dad?” he blurts, like the concept is too big to fit in his chest. “Me? I—we—holy shit—I’m gonna be a dad—”

He laughs through a choked-off sob, pressing frantic kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips.

Then he’s pulling you into his arms so tightly your feet lift off the floor, spinning you in the middle of the hallway as if he has nowhere else to go but here—this moment, this joy, this forever.

When he finally sets you down, he presses his forehead to yours, completely breathless.

“I swear to you,” he says, voice breaking, “I’m gonna be the best dad in the whole goddamn galaxy.”

And then, softer:

“Thank you. For making me the luckiest man alive. Again.”

Xavier

It’s been a rare stretch of stillness. No alarms. No missions. No glowing swords by the front door. Just you, Xavier, and the quiet rhythm of living together.

Tonight, he’s fast asleep on the couch—curled up with a book still resting on his chest, one arm draped lazily where you’d been sitting. He looked too peaceful to wake.

So you tiptoe to the bathroom, holding the little folded note you’d written earlier that day.

You read it softly to your reflection in the mirror—voice barely above a whisper:

“Hey… I know this probably isn’t how you imagined hearing it, but—” “—you’re going to be a father.”

You pause. Swallow. Try again.

“We made a new little light. It’s… real. He or she is already glowing inside me.”

You smile nervously at your own reflection.

“And I can’t wait for them to meet you.”

You freeze when you hear it

A soft knock. Followed by the sound of your name, tentative and low.

You turn slowly—he’s in the doorway, barefoot and wide-eyed, hair still sleep-mussed. He’s holding the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“…Did I just hear you say…?” His voice is hushed. Fragile.

Your breath catches. You nod.

He doesn’t speak. Not for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you—like he’s trying to etch the moment into memory.

Then finally, he crosses the room and sinks to his knees in front of you. Gently, reverently, he presses his forehead to your stomach. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on your thighs.

“This is…” he murmurs, voice catching, “...the kind of miracle I never let myself hope for.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you, and he’s smiling—but his lashes are wet.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “But I want to. With you.”

And when he rises and kisses you—slow, soft, like you’re something sacred—you realize he’s still processing, still stunned.

But beneath that? He’s glowing.

Rafayel

You had waited until he was out back painting on the cliff edge—headphones in, shirtless, covered in streaks of indigo and gold. His art trance could last hours.

So you snuck into his studio.

The sunlight hit the floor like water. The room smelled like sea salt and oil paints. And there you stood in front of the full-length mirror, a folded-up sketchbook page clutched in your hands.

“So…” you said to your reflection, smiling nervously. “I know we said ‘not yet.’ But um… turns out ‘yet’ is now.”

You pause. Swallow.

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You whisper it. Just once. And for a second, it feels real in the best, scariest way.

Then...

“...I’m going to be a what?”

You freeze.

He’s behind you in the doorway—barefoot, still holding a paintbrush, lips parted like he isn’t sure he actually heard you right.

“Say that again,” he says, softly. “Please.”

You whip around. “Raf—wait—I didn’t mean for you to—”

He walks in slowly. The brush falls from his fingers, forgotten. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the paper in your hand like it’s made of glass.

“You’re not joking, are you?” he asks. “You wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t…”

He trails off. Breath caught.

You shake your head. “I’m not joking.”

Silence. One second. Two.

Then he cracks.

The grin splits across his face like a sunrise, wild and stunned and full of something bigger than joy. His hands grab your waist, lift you clean off the floor—and he’s laughing. Gasping.

“I—! Holy shit—I MADE SOMETHING WITH YOU THAT WASN’T A MESS!”

He kisses you like you’re both a sunrise and a masterpiece—soft, shaky, endless. Then, quieter, pressing his forehead to yours:

“I can’t believe I’m going to get to teach someone how to make terrible jokes and beautiful chaos.”

Then he slides to his knees, presses his cheek to your stomach, and whispers in Lemurian:

“I love you already, little fish.”

Zayne

The house is quiet.

Zayne’s been in the study for hours—medical articles spread across the desk, old records murmuring from the speakers like white noise. You’d meant to go in and ask what he wanted for dinner.

Instead… you found yourself in the mirror. Holding a note you’d written for him days ago. You just needed to practice saying it out loud.

“I know we said not until things slow down,” you whisper. “But… maybe life had other plans.”

You pause. Then say it slowly:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The words feel strange and huge. Like trying to name a star.

You don’t notice the soft click of the door behind you.

Zayne’s voice cuts through the stillness. Low. Careful.

“...What did you just say?”

You turn.

He’s standing in the doorway with his wire-frame glasses still on, fingers curled slightly at his sides. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—tension, awe, disbelief all braided together.

“I—” you start, heart thudding. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. I was just—practicing.”

“So it’s… real?” he asks. Voice barely a whisper.

You shake your head. “It’s real.”

His eyes drop slightly—to your stomach. Then back up to your face.

He doesn’t move for a long, long moment. You see him run the calculations, review the mental charts, search for a breath.

But none of that matters now.

He crosses the room slowly, carefully, and takes both of your hands. His grip is warm, steady—but trembling at the edges.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “I’ve held thousands of hearts in my hands. But this…”

His throat tightens. He exhales hard. Then carefully lowers to his knees.

He presses his cheek gently against your belly.

“This is the most terrifying and miraculous thing I’ve ever been trusted with.”

And then, softer:

“You’re not alone in this. Ever.”

You run your fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes, holding your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of your future.

Sylus

You thought he was out late.

Protocore deal. Something classified and criminally vague. You’d texted him goodnight hours ago and assumed he’d stay gone until morning.

So you’re in his hoodie, curled up on the couch, holding a tiny plushie you bought earlier that day on impulse—a blue stuffed crow, with little red eyes.

You glance toward the bedroom mirror and whisper softly, just testing the words

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You hug the crow closer to your chest. Try again.

“I know that probably sounds… impossible. But it’s happening. We’re happening.”

Your voice wavers. You smile to yourself, imagining his face. His reaction.

“I’m scared too,” you admit quietly. “But if anyone can protect this kid—it’s you.”

“...Wow.”

You jolt upright, spinning around.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unreadable—like he’s still buffering.

“Sylus—I didn’t—how long have you been—?”

“Long enough,” he murmurs. “Long enough to think you were rehearsing lines for a drama. But now…”

He steps into the room slowly, almost cautiously.

“You’re serious.” “You’re actually…?” “You and me and… a kid?”

You nod. Gulp. “I just—I wanted to tell you right, I didn’t want to drop it on you after work, and—”

He tosses the jacket aside and crosses the room in three fast strides, pulling you into his arms so hard your breath leaves you.

“You are never allowed to tell me something like that while wearing my hoodie and holding a crow plush again,” he mutters into your neck. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just tightens his arms around you.

“...I didn’t think I’d get this,” he whispers.

You blink.

“I knew how to lead, how to protect, how to hurt. But this? Family?” “I didn’t think I was allowed to have something this good.”

Then he pulls back—just far enough to rest a hand over your stomach.

And you swear, even in the low light, he’s shaking.

“No one touches either of you without going through me,” he says, soft and deadly. “Got it?”

“This kid is going to grow up knowing exactly what it means to be loved.”