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, fluorescent lights humming a cold, indifferent tune. The air hangs 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, 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. The doctor is recommending 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 his vo…