It was finished.
The scent of fresh paint still lingered faintly in the air—soft lavender and pale ivory, with a mural of silver stars dancing across one wall. The hand-painted constellations shimmered beneath the gentle light of the custom ceiling lamp, designed to resemble a sky just moments before dawn.
Aria stood in the doorway, hands folded over her belly, her breath catching. She'd seen pieces of it come together—Leon wouldn't allow her to lift so much as a paintbrush—but she hadn't expected this.
He had thought of everything.The rounded corners on the furniture.The hand-stitched mobiles that gently spun above each of the three bassinets.And in the far corner—by the large window that opened to the soft afternoon sun—a velvet rocker with a blanket folded neatly on its arm.
"You did all this," she whispered, awe and emotion thick in her voice. "You remembered everything."
Leon stepped behind her, his arms encircling her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder. "We did this. You told me what mattered. I just… made it real."
She turned in his arms, eyes glassy. "It's perfect."
"No," he murmured, brushing a thumb beneath her eye. "Perfect is you. This is just… a reflection."
And then he stepped back, just slightly, and reached into his back pocket. "I wanted to wait till it was finished," he said, handing her a small, flat box tied with a cream ribbon.
Aria opened it slowly. Inside lay a delicate gold pendant on a fine chain—three tiny, intertwined rings hanging from the center, each with a small engraving on its curve.
A.L.∞.
Her breath hitched. "Three rings…"
"One for each of them," Leon said softly, resting his hand over her bump. "And infinity for you. For us."
"I don't deserve this," she whispered, voice cracking.
Leon pulled her into his chest and held her there, not letting go. "You deserve everything. You gave me a reason to live outside the boardroom. A family. A future. This…" He kissed the top of her head. "This is just the beginning."
Later that evening, after the sun dipped low and the soft lull of the city framed their silence, Aria sat alone in the nursery. Leon had gone to take a call, reluctantly, only after she made him.
The rocker swayed gently beneath her as she opened the journal she'd kept hidden in her nightstand drawer.
She uncapped her pen with a small smile and began to write:
Dear little stars,
I don't know your names yet. I don't know the shape of your faces or the colors of your eyes. But I feel you, every day.
I feel the flutter when I laugh too hard.I feel the weight of your dreams pressing gently against mine.And I feel your father's heart in every little thing he does for us—even when he pretends to be all gruff and bossy about it.
You are already so loved.
Before you've taken your first breath, before you've opened your eyes, you are the center of a world we never knew we were missing.
I promise I will be the kind of mother who listens. Who holds you when the world feels too loud, and lets you be exactly who you are without trying to change a single part.
Your father… well, he'll probably try to terrify every person you date and build you a fortress if you so much as sneeze. But he loves bigger than anyone I've ever known.
We built this room for you. With our hands. With our hopes. With so much love it makes my chest ache just thinking about it.
So grow strong. Take your time. We're waiting for you.
Always,—Mom
When Leon returned, she was still in the rocker, one hand resting over the gentle rise of her belly, the journal clutched to her chest.
He didn't speak. Just knelt in front of her, rested his head against her lap, and stayed there—still, steady, home.