It started with a cramp.
Not the kind Aria had grown used to—those dull, persistent aches of a body adjusting to three growing lives—but sharper, lower, and oddly rhythmic. At first, she brushed it off. She was nearing the due date, after all. Everything hurt by now.
But the second cramp came ten minutes later.
And the third, five minutes after that.
By the fourth, she'd stopped pretending.
"Leon?" Her voice carried softly through the apartment.
He appeared almost instantly from the nursery, where he'd been folding the tiniest socks known to mankind, his sleeves rolled up, jaw sharp with focus.
"Yes?" His eyes scanned her face instantly.
"I think..." She swallowed. "Something's happening."
He didn't panic. Not like in the stories. There was no fumbling or shouting or tripping over bags. Leon just set the socks down, walked to her, and dropped to one knee in front of her like he was proposing all over again.
"Tell me everything," he said, taking her hand.
She explained what she felt—timing, pressure, the dull heat blooming in her lower back. He nodded slowly, like he was processing a battle plan.
"Alright. We'll time the next few. I'll call Clara. And then we'll go when it's time."
His calm anchored her. It always did.
The next hour blurred slightly, suspended in that strange liminal space between normal and the extraordinary. Aria sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, while Leon moved through the apartment with purposeful stillness.
The hospital bag was already packed—twice checked, zipped, and sitting by the door. He added her phone charger. Her lip balm. A bottle of water. The playlist she'd made for the delivery room was already synced to his phone.
Clara answered on the second ring.
"She's describing mild contractions about five minutes apart," Leon said, pacing by the window. "No water breaking yet. Steady, but not panicked."
He listened, nodded once, and ended the call.
"She says this could take a while, but we're officially in early labor."
Aria blinked. "It's really happening?"
He stepped forward and cupped her face with both hands, pressing his forehead to hers.
"It's really happening."
Evening fell around them like a hush. The contractions became more noticeable, tugging at her breath, rearranging her insides with a frequency that now left no room for doubt.
Aria walked slowly from room to room, grounding herself in the home they'd built—the warm scent of vanilla from the kitchen, the half-finished mobile still on the nursery table, the dent in the couch cushions where she and Leon often curled up at night. Everything looked exactly the same, and yet—
It had begun.
Leon joined her on the balcony, where the spring air was cool and scented with rain. They stood in silence, her wrapped in a shawl, his arm around her shoulders, steady as stone.
"You're sure we're ready?" she asked quietly.
"We've been ready since the second I knew you were carrying them," he said, brushing his lips against her temple. "And if we're not—then we'll learn."
Another contraction swept through her, tighter this time. She gripped the railing, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth.
Leon didn't say anything. He just moved behind her, arms bracketing hers, and breathed with her—matching her pace, holding space for her strength.
When it passed, she leaned back into him, trembling slightly.
"I'm scared."
"I know." He kissed her crown. "But I'm not."
"Why?"
"Because you're mine," he murmured, "and they're ours. And that's all I need."
Later, as they climbed into the car with her bag in the back and a towel over the seat—just in case—Leon turned the engine and reached over to lace their fingers together.
The city lights blurred by in quiet streaks, the traffic unusually thin for a weekday evening.
As they drove toward the hospital, toward the moment everything would change, Aria whispered, "Leon?"
"Yes?"
"No matter what happens in there… I want you to be the first to hold them. After me."
He smiled without looking away from the road. "I was going to fight anyone who tried otherwise."
She laughed, even through the pain building again.
And for a moment, just a moment, everything felt as it should be.