I Heard the Heartbeat and I Broke a Little
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: pregnancy, first ultrasounds, emotional devastation (soft), quiet tears, twin reveal (Sylus), stoic boy meltdowns, chaos disguised as tenderness ♡ a/n: they all swore they’d stay calm. They all lied. You hear the heartbeat, and suddenly the bravest men in the galaxy are on the verge of crying, fainting, or starting a baby-proofing war plan.
Caleb
He tries to be calm.
Really, he does.
You’re holding his hand—well, more like crushing it—and Caleb’s doing his best to be composed. He smiles at the nurse. Makes a dumb joke. Rubs your knuckles.
But the moment that grainy little flicker shows up on the screen?
The moment the room fills with the steady, quick-thudding whump-whump-whump of a heartbeat?
He stops breathing.
The grin drops off his face like it was never there.
His fingers go still.
His eyes are locked on the screen, wide and unblinking.
“That’s… that’s ours?” he whispers.
You nod, voice catching in your throat. “Yeah.”
And then he laughs.
A breathy, broken little sound—half-sob, half-hysterical wonder. Like his whole body can’t decide whether to melt or combust. He turns toward you, eyes shimmering.
“I didn’t—I didn’t think I could feel this much.”
His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “You’re growing a whole person. Our person. That’s my kid in there. Our kid. I—”
He can’t finish the sentence.
He buries his face in your shoulder and laughs again, shaking a little.
“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says against your skin. “And they’ve already got my whole heart. I’m so screwed.”
You kiss the side of his head. “You’re not screwed.”
He pulls back, smiling through tears.
“No,” he says, looking at the screen again.
“I’m the luckiest bastard in the galaxy.”
Xavier
He’s quiet when the screen lights up.
Not his usual stillness. This is different.
His posture doesn’t shift. His expression barely changes. But you feel it—the way his hand tightens slightly around yours, the way his breath catches just a second too long.
And then the heartbeat comes through.
Whump-whump-whump.
Quick. Strong. Inarguably alive.
Xavier blinks once. His eyes lock on the grainy blur on the screen like he’s calculating a threat.
But there’s no threat.
Just something small. And safe. And yours.
“That sound…” he murmurs, voice low and careful, “is them?”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He stares a moment longer, then lowers his gaze to your stomach—like he's only just realizing what’s been there this whole time.
“I thought I understood,” he says softly. “What this would be. I thought I was prepared.”
A pause. He shifts in his seat, fingers grazing the edge of the ultrasound photo the nurse just handed him.
“I wasn’t.”
Another silence.
Then, so softly you almost miss it:
“I’ll protect them. Always.”
He says it like a vow. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just fact.
Like this heartbeat rewired him.
You lean your head against his shoulder.
He doesn't speak again. Doesn’t need to.
He just keeps staring at the screen like he’s watching the future take its first breath.
Rafayel
He's already being too much before the machine even starts.
Kissing your hand like you’re royalty. Calling the OB “a vessel of the divine.” Whispering, “Are you ready, my muse?” in your ear like this is a movie premiere.
You roll your eyes. “Rafayel, it’s an ultrasound.”
He leans closer, eyes glowing with mischief. “And what is an ultrasound… if not the first brushstroke of our greatest masterpiece?”
You don’t have time to reply before the screen flares on—and just like that, he goes silent.
Utterly. Completely.
You turn to look at him.
He's frozen. Wide-eyed. One hand over his mouth like he just saw the face of a god.
The heartbeat kicks in.
Whump-whump-whump.
And he loses it.
“Oh,” he whispers, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Oh—look at them. Look.”
You do.
But Rafayel? He’s already gone.
Tears pool at the edges of his lashes—long and unblinking, like he’s terrified that blinking might erase the moment. One escapes down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it.
He grabs your hand with both of his, reverent. Desperate. “They’re so small,” he breathes. “And they’re ours. You—you made that. In you. I—we—”
He lets out this overwhelmed little laugh-sob that turns into a hiccup halfway through.
Then whispers, “I need to paint this.”
You blink. “Babe. It’s a blur of static and bean-shape.”
“Exactly. It’s pure. Abstract. Untouched by symbolism. It’s raw emotion, darling.”
You stifle a snort. “Are you crying?”
“I am feeling,” he snaps, brushing a tear away dramatically. “Leave me be.”
He presses a kiss to your wrist like he’s grounding himself in reality.
“Promise me something,” he murmurs.
You nod.
“When they’re born... remind me I loved them first. Before I even met them.”
You lean in. Kiss his cheek.
“I think they already know.”
Zayne
Zayne keeps his eyes on the screen the moment it flickers on.
His hand is holding yours, but it’s stiff. Careful. Like he’s trying too hard not to feel anything too early. Trying to stay clinical. Detached. Professional.
Like he’s just here to observe.
Then the sound hits.
Whump-whump-whump.
The heartbeat. Fast. Alive. Steady.
Your baby.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
You glance over, expecting some sarcastic comment. A critique. Something.
But his jaw is tight.
His eyes—sharp, exact, always calculating—are suddenly unreadable. Blank in the way only Zayne can manage.
He doesn’t blink.
Not even once.
“Zayne?” you whisper.
Nothing.
And then—
Quietly.
Like it slips out without permission.
“…It’s real.”
He exhales hard, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.
His fingers tighten around yours. Not painfully—but with intensity. Like if he lets go, it might all disappear.
“I’ve seen thousands of heartbeats,” he murmurs. “Monitors. Flatlines. Fibrillations. But this…”
He swallows. Looks down at your hand in his.
“I didn’t know how different it would feel when it’s… ours.”
There’s something cracked open in him now. Something bare.
You watch his throat move as he swallows again, hard.
Then, softer:
“I didn’t think I’d be scared.”
You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be perfect.”
He finally turns to you. His eyes are glassy, but he’s holding it in like always. You can see it—the quiet shaking underneath.
“I’m not scared of messing up,” he says. “I’m scared of how much I already love them.”
You lean in, rest your forehead against his.
“They’re going to be okay.”
He closes his eyes.
And lets himself believe it.
Sylus
Sylus is leaning against the wall like this is a business meeting and not the moment his entire future is about to implode.
Arms crossed. Mouth set. Watching the monitor with laser focus, like the image might suddenly sprout a threat he can neutralize.
Your hand is in his, resting on your belly. The gel’s cold. The nurse is smiling. Everything feels calm.
Until—
Whump-whump-whump.
The first heartbeat kicks in.
Sylus doesn’t move.
Then the nurse tilts her head. Frowns slightly. Adjusts the wand.
“Oh,” she says casually, as if she’s not about to detonate a bomb in the room. “There’s another.”
You blink. “Another what?”
She clicks something.
“There are two heartbeats.”
You stare at her. “As in—?”
“Twins,” she says, cheerfully. “You’re having twins.”
You whip your head toward Sylus.
Still frozen. Still unreadable.
Except for the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The subtle roll of his eyes. The very long blink like he’s internally rebooting.
Then, under his breath—just loud enough for you to hear:
“…I’m f*cking surrounded.”
You choke on a laugh. “Babe.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Just rubs a hand down his face like the weight of responsibility has suddenly tripled.
Finally: “I agreed to one. One tiny parasite. We had a deal.”
You grin. “Babies don’t do contracts.”
He mutters something about renegotiating with the womb gods before slouching down in the chair beside you, staring at the screen like it personally betrayed him.
The nurse keeps talking—measurements, due dates, baby A and baby B—but he’s not hearing any of it.
He’s calculating. Strategizing. Probably already planning to fortify the nursery.
Then he turns to you. Deadpan. Quiet.
“I’m going to need more weapons.”
You squeeze his hand.
“More diapers, you mean.”
He scowls. You can see the crisis brewing behind his eyes. But he still lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like it’s instinct.
And then—very softly:
“…They’re gonna be so small.”
You nod. “And they’re yours.”
He leans back. Stares at the ceiling.
“God help me,” he mutters. “I’m gonna love them stupid, aren’t I?”
You smirk. “Already do.”
He groans.
But doesn’t let go of your hand.
Not for a second.
