The days that followed melted into one another with a gentleness Aria hadn't known she needed. No boardrooms. No deadlines. No ringing phones that weren't answered in the first breath.
Just Leon—and the quiet rhythm of a life paused for love.
He had set up a temporary work desk in the sunlit corner of the living room, a clean, minimal space with a sleek monitor, leather notebook, and her framed ultrasound sitting at its center. But no matter how important the conference call or detailed the financial brief, his gaze always flicked to Aria first—to check if she needed anything, if she looked tired, or if she had wandered off for even a second without him noticing.
Their mornings began with slow walks in the nearby park, where the trees were just beginning to bloom and the path curved in soft arcs under rustling canopies. Leon would keep one hand protectively resting at the small of her back and the other firmly clasping hers, their fingers always interlaced like it had become second nature.
"You know," Aria said one morning as a breeze teased the edge of her scarf, "you don't have to walk this slow."
Leon raised an eyebrow, amused. "Do you want me to risk the wrath of three babies by pushing their mother too hard?"
She laughed softly, the sound catching on the wind. "No. But I want you to breathe too, you know."
"I am," he replied, pulling her closer against his side. "Right now. Only when I'm with you."
Afternoons were filled with shared meals at the kitchen island, where Leon insisted on sitting beside her instead of across from her so he could sneak kisses between bites and wipe away crumbs from her lips like it was the most normal thing in the world. He'd learned her cravings better than she had, rotating through carefully selected meals that aligned with the doctor's chart—but always seasoned the way she liked them.
"You make a ridiculously attractive househusband," she teased once, as he poured her another glass of fresh juice.
"I'd rather be your husband in any form," he said simply, his eyes soft as they met hers. "As long as I'm with you."
But the most cherished moments were the quiet ones.
When night fell, and the city dimmed outside their windows, Leon would wrap an arm around her and pull her close in bed, his other hand always finding hers beneath the sheets. His nose would brush against her hair as he inhaled deeply, grounding himself in her scent like it tethered him to something real and fragile and necessary.
"Talk to me," he'd whisper, every night.
And she would.
She'd tell him about little things—her childhood, her favorite books, her ideas for the nursery. He never interrupted. Never corrected. Just listened, completely present, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand in silent comfort.
And when she mentioned the nursery again—her voice catching slightly as she said she wanted to build it with him, not leave it to strangers—he kissed her forehead and promised, "Then it'll be built with love. No one else. Just us."
The next day, he brought in tools, sandpaper, paint samples, and design sketches. But when she tried to help, Leon stopped her with a gentle but firm shake of his head.
"Chair. Now."
"But I'm pregnant, not fragile."
"You're mine," he said, brushing a kiss along her temple, "and that makes you priceless. Sit. Watch. Be the boss."
And so she did—curled in a chair with cushions and a blanket, sipping tea while directing colors and shapes, her eyes sparkling as he measured, hammered, and painted, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair tousled.
She couldn't remember ever being so happy watching someone else work.
And Leon couldn't remember a time when he'd worked with so much purpose.
It wasn't just a nursery.
It was a sanctuary.
For her.For them.For the life they were building—one tender, golden moment at a time.