Zarah
I never noticed the door before.
It was just another closed thing at the end of the west wing.
One of a dozen.
The kind of door that didn't invite questions.
But today... something pulled me to it.
Maybe it was the way Dominic looked at me over breakfast.
The way he kept glancing toward the hallway.
Like he was waiting for me to notice something.
Or maybe—
Maybe he was just hoping I would.
I padded barefoot down the hall, robe loose over my belly, fingers brushing the wall like a guide.
The door wasn't locked.
But it clicked when I turned the handle.
Soft.
Heavy.
And when I opened it—
I stopped breathing.
It wasn't a guest room.
Wasn't an office.
Wasn't what I'd expected from a man who'd never once spoken the word nursery out loud.
It was sunlight through linen.
Cream walls.
Wood polished warm and glowing.
A crib in the corner—hand-carved, deep mahogany.
Blankets folded in perfect stacks.
A mobile hanging above the mattress.
Tiny metal planets.
Spinning slowly.
Delicate rings and moons and stars.
A dresser against the wall.
No changing table yet.
But beside it, a small rocking chair—cedar, aged, worn soft with love.
I stepped forward.
My knees shook.
And there, just above the crib, in silver script on a dark wood plaque:
"Ours."
I brought my hand to my mouth.
Tears came fast.
No warning.
No shame.
Just tears that tasted like safety and velvet and love I never knew I deserved.
He built this.
While I was sleeping.
While I was fighting my own reflection.
While I was pretending I wasn't terrified to become someone's mother.
He built a space where I could believe in something more than survival.
"You weren't supposed to find it yet."
I turned.
He stood in the doorway.
Quiet.
Still.
Like he was afraid to step inside.
"I'm glad I did," I whispered.
"I didn't want you to think I expected anything from you," he said slowly.
"That this meant pressure."
"It doesn't."
"It's just..."
He looked around the room.
Exhaled.
"It's a promise."
He finally stepped in.
Came to me.
Curled an arm around my back.
I leaned into his chest and let the tears fall.
"You said you didn't want to be a father," I murmured.
"I didn't."
He kissed the crown of my head.
"Until I met you."
Dominic
I don't name things.
I number them.
Sort them.
Classify. File. Own.
Names mean attachment.
Names mean I care if it breaks.
And I've spent most of my life trying not to care.
But when Zarah fell asleep beside me last week—
Hand curled beneath her belly—
Murmuring something soft I couldn't make out—
I realized I already had names.
Dozens.
Spinning in my head.
All fighting for space inside the chest I used to call hollow.
So I wrote them down.
Not for tradition.
Not for family.
For her.
For the child that kept me up at night with the weight of a future I suddenly couldn't live without.
Now she stands beside the crib.
Fingers trailing the edge like it's made of glass.
I pull the folded paper from my jacket.
"This is yours."
She takes it slowly.
Unfolds it.
Her lips part as she reads.
Each one hand-written.
No order.
Just scattered pieces of me across the page.
Rowan.
Elias.
Mina.
Callum.
Thalia.
Jules.
Briar.
And then—
Circled once.
Twice.
A third time in black ink like I couldn't let it go.
"Wren."
She looks up.
Eyes wide.
Throat tight.
"Wren," she whispers.
"That's the one, isn't it."
I nod.
"That's the one I saw when I pictured her."
"Her?" She steps forward. "You think it's a girl?"
"I know it's a girl."
"How?"
"Because only a girl could make me feel this much without saying a single word."
She covers her mouth.
Tears again.
Always tears with her.
And I've never been more addicted to anything.
I take her hand.
Guide it back to her belly.
Lay mine over it.
"Wren Vale Ward."
"Not Vale-Ward?" she teases softly.
"No."
"She'll lead with you."
"Because you gave her life."
"I just gave her a name."
Zarah sobs then.
Harder this time.
And I hold her through it.
Because if nothing else—
This child will never doubt who she belongs to.
And who we belong to now.
