EVEREST
When Isla tells him he was amazing, that they could not have done it without him, his brows lift faintly, not dismissive, but gently incredulous. "That is only because you would not have been in this position without me,", he says quietly, a small, shaky huff of breath escaping him. There is no deflection in it, only a thin thread of humour woven through something much more reverent. He does not take credit for what she has just done. He stands in awe of it.
But as she asks him to hold their daughter, the room seems to narrow again, though this time not with pain. He inhales slowly, nodding at once—of course, of course—even as a clean, sharp spike of terror runs through him. Not the panic of chaos, but the precise fear of fragility. She is impossibly small. Breakable in ways the world has never seemed breakable before. "Yes," he says, and his voice is steady even if his pulse is not.
He steps forward as the nurse helps guide the transfer, and when their daughter is placed into his arms he receives her as though she is made of spun glass and gravity itself. He bends his elbows immediately, forming the careful cradle he has practised in theory countless times. One hand slides beneath her neck, fingers splayed with deliberate support. The other curves around her back and hips, drawing her close but not tight. Not too tight. Do not drop her. Support the head. Always the head.
He adjusts minutely, breath held, eyes wide and fixed on the tiny rise and fall of her chest. His expression is a study in concentrated alarm and reverence all at once, as though he has been entrusted with something holy and is certain he might fail it through sheer human clumsiness. She is warm; he did not expect the warmth to feel so startling. "Hello," he whispers, voice barely audible, leaning down a fraction so she can see his face, or so he imagines she can. "I am your father." The word feels enormous. He glances toward Isla then, eyes still bright with unshed tears, awe and disbelief written openly across his face.
But as she asks him to hold their daughter, the room seems to narrow again, though this time not with pain. He inhales slowly, nodding at once—of course, of course—even as a clean, sharp spike of terror runs through him. Not the panic of chaos, but the precise fear of fragility. She is impossibly small. Breakable in ways the world has never seemed breakable before. "Yes," he says, and his voice is steady even if his pulse is not.
He steps forward as the nurse helps guide the transfer, and when their daughter is placed into his arms he receives her as though she is made of spun glass and gravity itself. He bends his elbows immediately, forming the careful cradle he has practised in theory countless times. One hand slides beneath her neck, fingers splayed with deliberate support. The other curves around her back and hips, drawing her close but not tight. Not too tight. Do not drop her. Support the head. Always the head.
He adjusts minutely, breath held, eyes wide and fixed on the tiny rise and fall of her chest. His expression is a study in concentrated alarm and reverence all at once, as though he has been entrusted with something holy and is certain he might fail it through sheer human clumsiness. She is warm; he did not expect the warmth to feel so startling. "Hello," he whispers, voice barely audible, leaning down a fraction so she can see his face, or so he imagines she can. "I am your father." The word feels enormous. He glances toward Isla then, eyes still bright with unshed tears, awe and disbelief written openly across his face.
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
