The world had quieted.
After the flood of light, sound, and motion, the delivery room was dim and still, as if holding its breath in reverence.
Aria lay half-upright in the hospital bed, a soft blanket tucked around her, skin still warm from exertion. But her arms—her arms were full.
One of the babies—her daughter—rested against her bare chest, tiny and blinking, her face scrunching slightly as if the light was too much. She was impossibly small, her skin still flushed with the effort of being born, but warm and whole and real.
Aria couldn't stop staring.
"I don't know how to describe this," she whispered.
Leon sat beside her, cradling one of the other babies, their second daughter, his large hands so gentle they barely seemed to move. "You don't have to," he said softly. "I know."
The third baby, their son, was sleeping quietly in a small bassinet next to the bed, swaddled and peaceful after his first feeding. The nurses had offered to take them all for monitoring, but Leon and Aria had asked for time—just a little time—to hold them.
To understand.
To begin.
Skin-to-skin was more than just warmth—it was instinct.
Aria felt the delicate rise and fall of her daughter's chest against hers, the slow rooting of her mouth, the tiniest sigh when Aria shifted just right.
"Here," a nurse said gently, adjusting the latch. "She's trying. Give her a minute."
And then—there it was.
That soft, unmistakable rhythm of feeding.
Aria blinked hard. "She's feeding."
"You're doing amazing," the nurse said, then gave them a moment alone.
Leon leaned over, his voice hushed. "They're all perfect."
She smiled, dazed. "You said we'd be okay. You were right."
He pressed his lips to her temple. "I'd have torn the world apart to get you to this moment."
They took turns—Leon holding each child like they were made of spun glass, murmuring to them, rocking them gently.
Each of them so different already.
Their son had a strong grip, even in sleep. One daughter was fussy and wrinkled her nose at everything. The other had already burrowed into Leon's chest like she belonged there.
"I think we need to name them," Aria said, hours later, when dawn began to peek through the hospital window.
Leon smiled. "You've had names picked out, haven't you?"
She nodded. "But I wanted to see them first. To know who was who."
She touched her son's tiny fist. "This one… this one feels like Elias."
Leon tilted his head. "Elias."
"And her—" Aria glanced at the calm little bundle on Leon's chest "—Amara."
Leon looked down at the baby and nodded. "It fits."
Aria swallowed. "And the feisty one... Lila."
Leon laughed, low and warm. "That's perfect."
Elias. Amara. Lila.
Three names. Three lives. Three beginnings, born from something that had once felt impossible.
When the nurses finally returned, they found Aria and Leon still wide awake, though exhausted, their voices quiet as they took turns watching each baby.
"You should sleep soon," one nurse said gently.
Leon shook his head. "In a little while."
Aria whispered, "We just need a little more time."
Because those first hours were sacred—softly lit and heavy with love, with awe, with something unspoken and enormous.
And they knew they would never get them back again.