The hospital's NICU smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm milk. The hum of machines was soft but constant, a low, reassuring chorus that wrapped around the tiny cribs.
Every morning, just as visiting hours opened, Yu arrived. Callen was always the one to drive him—first out of obligation, then out of something quieter he didn't name.
Yu's first steps into the NICU each day were the same:
A faint hitch in his breath at the sight of the small plastic crib where Cain slept beneath the gentle glow of the monitor. The baby's chest rose and fell in fragile rhythm, and each breath eased a piece of the tight knot in Yu's chest.
He stayed for hours—sometimes sitting silently beside the incubator, sometimes reading in a hushed voice while Cain slept. Occasionally Cain stirred and opened his eyes just enough to see Yu's face before drifting off again. Those moments were the brightest in Yu's long days.
