The hospital room was colder than she expected.
Not unfriendly—just sterile. Neutral walls, the steady rhythm of machines, and the quiet presence of the nurse adjusting the IV line in Aria's arm.
Leon hadn't let go of her hand since they stepped through the sliding doors.
"Breathe," he whispered, low and steady. "Just like we practiced."
Aria closed her eyes and nodded. Her lower back throbbed. The contractions were no longer vague suggestions—they were tides, surging and crashing, dragging her under every few minutes.
The admitting nurse had confirmed she was dilated four centimeters. They were staying.
The babies were coming.
The next few hours passed in contractions and careful checks. The world narrowed to a single rhythm: the rising pain, the tightening pressure, and Leon's grounding presence beside her.
He held her hand through each wave. Wiped her brow. Offered her ice chips when her throat went dry. Never once looked away.
When one particularly vicious contraction hit, Aria broke into a sweat, her body curling around the pain.
"I can't—Leon—" she gasped, tears springing unbidden.
"You can," he said, firmly, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. "You're doing it, Aria. Every breath, every second—you're already doing it."
She clung to him like an anchor.
When the nurse returned with the anesthesiologist, Aria hesitated for only a heartbeat before nodding. "Yes," she whispered. "I need it."
Leon didn't flinch. He stepped aside but stayed close, one hand on her shoulder as the epidural was administered. When the relief began to roll in, she almost wept with gratitude.
"You're halfway there," the nurse murmured gently. "Six centimeters. You're progressing well."
But the night was far from over.
By midnight, the room was dimly lit, monitors softly beeping in rhythm with her heartbeat and the babies'. The contractions slowed but deepened, becoming less urgent but more ominous. A tension coiled under the calm.
Leon sat beside her, his hand in hers, the other gently stroking her belly.
"They're quiet," he whispered.
"They're sleeping," Aria murmured. "They know it's almost time."
She turned to him, suddenly overwhelmed. "What if something goes wrong?"
He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers. "Then we deal with it together. But nothing's going to happen. They're strong. And so are you."
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. "I never thought this would be my life. That I'd have something so... permanent. So real."
"You're not dreaming," he said, eyes shining in the low light. "And if you are, I'll stay in it with you."
At 3:00 AM, a shift occurred.
Her dilation was nearly complete. The doctor arrived. The room stirred into motion. More nurses appeared. Equipment was prepped.
Leon helped her sit up slightly, supporting her back as another contraction seized her.
This one was different.
She felt it in her bones—the weight, the urgency.
The doctor glanced at the monitor and then at her. "We're there, Aria. It's time to push."
Everything after that was a blur of intensity and pain, of breathless effort and sharp cries and Leon's voice in her ear, a steady presence through the chaos.
"You've got this."
"One more."
"They're almost here."
Aria gritted her teeth, body trembling as she gave everything she had. For them. For the tiny lives fighting their way into the world.
And then—
A cry.
Sharp. Loud. Unmistakably real.
Followed seconds later by a second cry.
And then a third.
Triplets.
The room seemed to pause, the air thick with wonder as the doctor and nurses moved quickly, efficiently.
Aria collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaking her face, her body spent but heart thudding wildly.
"They're here," she whispered, dazed. "Leon… they're here."
He didn't speak.
He was staring at the nurses as they brought over three impossibly small, wriggling bundles.
"Three," he breathed. "All of them…"
"Healthy," the nurse said gently. "A bit early, but strong."
They laid one against Aria's chest, and the moment her skin touched that warm, trembling life, her heart broke open.
Leon kissed her forehead, his voice thick. "You did it, Aria."
We did it, she thought, but she was too overwhelmed to say it out loud.
The night had stretched longer than either of them had imagined.
But now—dawn was coming.