Nearly two months had slipped by since those life-altering words had first left Aria's lips.
She was pregnant—with triplets.
And while the initial weeks had been marked by shock, adjustment, and long, careful conversations, their days had since mellowed into a rhythm that was slow, intimate, and deeply intentional.
Leon had scaled back everything—business trips, office hours, social calls—and transformed their home into something of a sanctuary. He rarely left unless it was necessary, and when he did, he came back with fresh fruit, flowers, and a kiss to her temple like it was ritual. He answered emails from the study, took meetings with a baby monitor already installed near his desk, and made sure the fridge was always stocked with anything Aria craved, even at 3 a.m.
Which brought them to tonight.
The clock read 2:13 a.m., the city outside their windows hushed and heavy with summer air.
Aria shifted in bed, unable to get comfortable. Her back ached in that dull, constant way it had started doing lately, and the babies were restless—one kicking, the other shifting, another curling against her ribs. Her whole body hummed with quiet discomfort.
Leon stirred almost instantly, the sheet rustling as he turned to face her. "You okay?"
"I can't sleep," she murmured. "They're all doing somersaults in there."
His hand immediately found hers under the blanket. "Want tea?"
She hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. "That actually sounds perfect."
They padded into the kitchen together, her in one of his oversized hoodies and him shirtless, hair tousled, the waistband of his sweatpants slung low on his hips. The apartment was dim and quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the low hum of the world beyond their windows.
Leon flicked on the stove light instead of the overheads, bathing the room in a soft glow. He moved easily around the kitchen, pulling down her favorite chamomile-lavender blend without needing to ask. She sat at the island, resting her cheek against her palm, watching him with a soft smile.
"I love you like this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Sleepy. Domestic. All mine."
Leon raised a brow as he filled the kettle. "You get sentimental after midnight."
"I get honest after midnight," she corrected.
When he brought the mug over to her, she reached for it—and for him. He let her pull him close, standing between her knees as she sipped. Her fingers grazed the hem of his shirt, grounding herself with the simple touch of him.
"Do you ever… get scared?" she asked suddenly.
Leon leaned in, his forehead brushing hers. "Every day. But not of the babies. Not of you. Just of not being enough."
She exhaled. "Me too."
He cupped her cheek. "But we're here. We're trying. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
"It counts for everything."
They stood in the kitchen for a while longer, wrapped in each other, the tea forgotten.
Later, back in bed, Aria curled into Leon's chest and listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart.
"You know," she murmured, voice drowsy, "I've started writing to them."
"To who?"
"Our babies. Just little letters. Silly stuff. How it feels to carry them. What kind of people I hope they become."
Leon's throat tightened.
"I'd like to read them someday," he said.
"When they're ready," she promised.
He kissed her shoulder and let sleep pull them both under—fingers intertwined, three heartbeats fluttering quietly between them.