It was a Sunday afternoon, one of those lazy ones where nothing demanded attention and everything felt soft. Isabel sat on a picnic blanket in the garden behind their home, flipping through a book with one hand while the other rested over her stomach.
Adrian approached, carrying two glasses of cold lemonade. "You know," he said, settling beside her, "you're glowing in the literal sense."
She chuckled. "Sweat and pregnancy will do that to a girl."
He placed a hand gently over hers. "Seven months. Can you believe it?"
"I can. Every kick feels like a drumbeat from the future."
They sat in peaceful silence, sunlight dappling through the trees above them. Jude and Vanessa were on the porch, arguing about paint colors for their shared studio space. Zara walked through the garden, camera in hand, snapping candid photos of the mess and beauty around her.
"I think she's going to be fierce," Adrian said, resting his hand against her belly.
"She?" Isabel raised a brow.
"Just a feeling."
"Well, she better be. She's got a mom who went through hell and bloomed anyway."
"And a dad who still can't believe he got to be loved by you."
She leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure. Their daughter kicked between them.
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The laughter, the garden, the conversations about names and future dreams—everything felt like a small, sacred echo of the life they fought to build. And it was only the beginning.