The heat had settled over Richmond with a soft, golden haze. The air carried the hum of summer — lawnmowers, children's laughter from the neighbouring gardens, the distant rattle of an ice cream van making its lazy rounds.
Inside their new house, everything felt alive.
Boxes had long been unpacked, the walls were no longer bare, and the air carried the scent of rosemary and mint from the pots Isabelle had lined along the kitchen windowsill. Every room seemed to hum with a quiet, contented energy — the kind that came from being lived in.
Robert had thrown himself into domestic life with the same focus he once had only for work.
He took the children to the park in the mornings, grocery-shopped like a man on a mission, and had a near-military system for Isabelle's prenatal vitamins.
He even developed opinions about laundry detergents, among other household cleaners, much to Isabelle's amusement.
Their shared office overlooked the garden — a bright space filled with light and the rustle of summer air through the open window. Two desks sat side by side; one always slightly tidier than the other.
Robert's laptop was open, a half-written email on its screen. Isabelle's was surrounded by notes, sketches, and the occasional biscuit wrapper she'd forgotten to hide.
"Are you getting enough iron?" he asked absently, scanning a spreadsheet.
She looked up, one brow raised. "You've become alarmingly good at sounding like my midwife."
He grinned, unrepentant. "Someone has to keep you in line. You've been working for three hours straight."
"Correction," she said, smiling. "We've been working for three hours straight."
"Yes," he said mildly, "but I'm not growing a human inside me."
That earned him a soft laugh — and then a quiet sigh as she leaned back in her chair, one hand resting on her rounded belly. "He's getting heavy," she murmured. "Like he's running out of space."
Robert swiveled his chair to face her, concern flickering in his eyes. "Do you want to lie down, my love?"
"I'm fine," she said, smiling. "Just… happy. Tired, but happy."
He reached over and brushed her hair back from her face. "That's a good combination."
She caught his hand, lacing her fingers with his. "You've been incredible, you know that? I didn't think you'd be this domestic."
He gave a soft, mock-offended huff. "Domestic? I prefer 'versatile.'"
That made her laugh again, the sound light and full of affection. "Versatile, then."
He leaned closer. "You realise, of course, that I'm never going back to supermarket sandwiches now that I've mastered roast chicken."
"You're very proud of that chicken," she teased.
"I am," he said seriously. "That chicken has changed me."
She smiled, shaking her head. "You've changed a lot, Mr Blake."
He caught the softness in her tone — the quiet truth of it — and his expression gentled. "For you. For our family. Our beautiful life together. "
For a moment, they just sat there, the late afternoon sun washing the room in a warm, golden glow. Somewhere outside, Luke shouted something about a water fight, and Becca's laughter rang out, high and bright.
Robert sighed, smiling faintly. "We should probably intervene before the garden turns into a swamp."
She groaned, pretending reluctance. "They're fine. It's summer. That's what gardens are for."
"Hmm," he said, glancing out the window. "Tell that to the flowerbeds."
By the time evening settled, the air had cooled and the house was quiet again. Helene had taken the children for a walk, leaving the two of them alone for the first time that day.
Robert was at the table, writing a list — things to pack for the hospital, people to call, reminders about school uniforms for September.
"You know," Isabelle said as she walked in, "you're nesting more than I am."
He looked up with a grin. "I'm a planner. It's who I am."
"It's adorable," she said softly, resting her head on his shoulder.
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her hair. "I just want everything to be ready. For you. For him."
Her eyes softened. "It already is."
Meanwhile, across the city, Richard sat in his office — a place that looked far less chaotic than it used to.
His new assistant, Wendy, was a revelation.
She was in her late forties, with iron-grey hair, sharp eyes, and the posture of a headteacher who had survived decades of mischief. She ran his schedule with military precision and an unflappable calm that could silence even the most entitled clients.
When she spoke, people listened.
When she disapproved, they tried very hard not to be responsible for it.
Richard had privately admitted — to himself, and only himself — that she scared him a little. But she was also brilliant. She managed the team with dry humour and no patience for nonsense, especially from younger employees who confused efficiency with entitlement.
More than once, Richard had overheard her say, "If you can't find the file, perhaps try looking for it instead of panicking."
The office ran smoother than it had in years.
Wendy even handled his travel bookings with uncanny accuracy, and had introduced new software to streamline client communications. When Richard had tentatively asked how she'd learned all the new systems so quickly, she'd replied briskly, "I take refresher courses. One must keep up, Mr. Hale."
He found himself smiling every time she said that — Mr. Hale — as though she were talking to a schoolboy who needed supervision.
Back in Richmond, twilight deepened, and Isabelle stood by the nursery window, one hand resting over the soft swell of her belly.
The room smelled faintly of new furniture and fresh paint. Tiny clothes stacked neatly in the wardrobe, folded in impossibly small stacks.
Robert came up behind her, sliding his arms around her middle and resting his chin on her shoulder.
"Nearly there," he murmured.
She nodded. "Almost."
"Do you think he'll come early?"
She smiled faintly. "He seems to like keeping us waiting."
He kissed the side of her neck, his voice low and certain. "We can wait. Together."
And for a long, peaceful moment, they just stood there — the world outside soft and still — waiting for their son to arrive.
That night, the quiet didn't last.
It began with a tightening across Isabelle's abdomen — familiar, steady, unmistakable. She breathed through it easily, leaning against the doorframe as she waited for Robert to finish washing up.
"Robert?" she called lightly as he finished washing the last plate. "I think it's time."
He froze, plate in his hand, eyes widening as though the floor had shifted beneath him. "Time? Time as in... now?"
She nodded, as calm and soft as summer rain. "Yes. But don't panic, love. It's early stages."
He absolutely panicked.
Not outwardly — outwardly he nodded with great seriousness and said, "Of course. Right. We're ready. I'm ready."
But his hands trembled as he dried the plate; and when he reached for his phone to call Helene, he nearly typed his PIN backwards.
Isabelle reached for him with an affectionate smile. "Robert… breathe. It's my third. We've got this."
"I know," he said, voice tight. "But you're — you're everything to me. The most important thing in my life. I can't…" He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.
She stepped toward him, taking his hands. "Hey. I'm not going anywhere."
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, trying to steady himself. "This is the scariest thing I've ever done."
"And the most wonderful," she whispered.
By the time they reached the hospital, Robert had rallied — still pale, still tense, but fiercely present, gripping her arm as though anchoring her to him.
Isabelle remained serene, breathing in a quiet rhythm, offering him small smiles between contractions. "You're doing great," she teased.
"I'm not the one doing anything," he muttered, though his hand traced up and down her arm, grounding himself in the simple act of touching her.
And then — after what felt to Robert like both an eternity and a heartbeat — their son arrived.
The room blurred, fell away. All Robert could see was Isabelle, exhausted and luminous, and the tiny, wailing bundle being placed in her arms.
Emotion hit him like a wave — fierce, overwhelming, unstoppable. His breath broke in his throat. Tears stung his eyes before he could even pretend to fight them.
He kissed Isabelle's forehead, then her hair. "You're incredible," he whispered, voice shaking. "My God, he's perfect. You're both perfect."
She looked down at their son, swaddled and blinking up at them with dark, curious eyes.
"Hello, little man," she murmured, brushing her finger against his cheek. "Welcome to the world."
Robert sat close — impossibly close — as though afraid that if he loosened his hold on this moment, it might disappear. He kept one hand on Isabelle's arm, the other lightly touching their son's back, unwilling to be even an inch away.
"What do you think for his name?" Isabelle asked softly.
Robert swallowed, his voice thick. "Michael."
Her smile warmed the room. "Michael," she repeated. "Yes. He's definitely a Michael."
Their son made a small sound, almost a sigh, as though agreeing.
Robert kissed them both again, overwhelmed with gratitude so fierce it bordered on ache. "I love you," he whispered. "Both of you. More than I ever thought possible."
And for the rest of the night — through the soft hospital lights, the quiet hum of distant footsteps, the gentle breaths of a newborn — Robert didn't leave their side.
Not for a moment.