The late afternoon sun streamed through the wide windows of their apartment, casting golden light over the nursery walls, softening everything it touched. Aria stood at the doorway, her hand resting on the curve of her belly as she watched Leon adjust the tiny books on the shelf for what must've been the fifth time.
He was meticulous, almost reverent, as if even the placement of a picture book carried meaning.
"They're going to chew on those, you know," she teased, lips tugging into a smile.
Leon turned, mock-offended. "Not if I teach them how to respect literature."
Aria laughed, stepping into the room. "Good luck with that. They'll be teething monsters."
"They'll be geniuses," he corrected gently, crossing the room to meet her. "Geniuses who occasionally drool."
He slid his arms around her carefully, drawing her in until her head rested against his shoulder, the bump of her belly snug between them. She sighed into him, her fingers curling lightly at his waist.
"I can't believe this is our life now," she whispered.
"I can," Leon murmured. "Because we chose it. Every step. Every moment. You fought for it, even when I was too scared to hope."
She leaned back to look at him, emotion pooling in her eyes. "I still get scared sometimes. Like I'll wake up and it'll be gone."
His thumb brushed beneath her eye. "It's not going anywhere. Not me. Not them." He paused. "They're real, Aria. I hear it every time the doctor plays that little heartbeat."
She nodded, voice tight. "I've been writing again."
"The letters?"
She smiled. "I want them to have pieces of us. Words, memories—things they can hold on to, even long after we're gone."
Leon's gaze softened. "Will you read one to me?"
Aria hesitated, then moved to the drawer in the nursery corner, pulling out a pale yellow notebook. She flipped through it until she reached a fresh page.
"I wrote this last night," she said, sitting down carefully on the cushioned window seat. Leon followed, folding beside her.
She cleared her throat, eyes scanning the page before she began:
My darlings—
I still don't know what your faces will look like, or which one of you will kick me in the ribs at 3 a.m., or who will cry the loudest just because you want to be held. But I know this: I love you already.
Your father built this room with his own hands. Every stroke of paint, every tiny screw in the crib—it's all him. I see him in the way he looks at this space like it's sacred. Like you already live here.
He says I'm the strong one, but the truth is, it's him. It's always been him.
I hope you inherit his kindness. I hope you have his patience. And maybe my stubborn streak, just a little. But above all—I hope you always know how deeply you are loved.
Even now. Especially now.
By the time she finished, Leon had stilled beside her. He looked down at her, voice husky. "You write like your heart is too big for one person to hold."
"I write because it's all I can do while they grow," she murmured. "I can't protect them from the world yet. But I can leave them pieces of me."
Leon took the notebook gently from her lap, closed it, and set it aside. Then he turned and placed a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then lower, down to where his hand cradled her belly.
"You're not alone in this," he whispered against her skin. "Not for a single second."
Aria blinked away tears, resting her head on his shoulder.
They sat like that until the sun dipped below the skyline, until the gold faded to lavender and the first stars blinked to life. Until the soft sounds of the city hushed into something like stillness.
It was more than just them now.
And it always would be.