“Come with me,” the doctor said.

The walk to the office felt endless. When Logan sat, his hands still refused to leave his pockets, as if holding them there could protect him.

The doctor folded his own hands and paused before speaking. “Your wife is strong. Labor was sudden, her blood pressure spiked, and we had to operate. She is stable now and under close observation.”

Relief flickered briefly through Logan’s chest, but he saw the hesitation in the doctor’s eyes.

“There were complications with the baby,” the doctor continued. “He was born deprived of oxygen. At this stage, we cannot predict the long-term effects. He is in intensive care, supported by machines, and we are doing everything possible.”

Logan felt as though the room tilted. He searched for words, but only managed, “Can I see him?”

The doctor’s expression softened. “Yes, but only through the glass.”

They walked together to the neonatal unit. Behind the transparent wall, under the glow of clinical lamps, lay a body so small it seemed almost unreal. Wires and sensors surrounded him, a machine pushing tiny breaths into his lungs.

Logan pressed closer. His son’s chest rose and fell in fragile rhythm, and in that moment, warmth surged within him despite the cold fear still coiled around his heart. Tears slid down his face, unbidden, silent.

When the nurse reminded him his time was up, Logan lingered until the last possible second.

Outside, snow continued to fall, whitening the streets of Ashford. The city carried on with its chatter and traffic, indifferent to his private storm. Logan stood in the drifting flakes, coat damp, cheeks wet with both snow and tears.

He thought of Harlow in her hospital bed, thought of the words he would speak to her when she opened her eyes. He would not tell her everything at once; he would give her strength instead of despair.

He did not know what the coming days would bring. The future stretched ahead like a frozen river, uncertain and dangerous. Yet one truth anchored him: he would not leave them. Not his wife, not his son.

Logan tilted his face to the sky. The snow fell softly, muffling the city’s noise, and he finally understood why Harlow loved it. It made the world seem cleaner, calmer, as if offering a chance to begin again.

He drew a deep breath of icy air and held it. A father, he thought, is not measured by balloons or bouquets, but by the love that endures when joy is replaced by trial. And he knew, with painful clarity, that his love would remain, no matter what waited ahead.