The nursery was quiet.
Too quiet.
Soft light spilled through the window.
Dust moved slowly in the air.
Unfinished walls.
Empty space.
Waiting.
Leah stood near the window.
Still.
Her hand resting lightly against her stomach.
Breathing slow.
Trying to steady something that wouldn't settle.
Behind her—
A presence.
Familiar.
Grounding.
"…You stayed."
Izana's voice. Low.
She didn't turn immediately.
"…I like it here."
A pause.
"…Even like this?"
Her gaze moved slowly across the room.
The empty crib space.
The untouched corners.
"…Even like this."
Footsteps.
Measured.
Closer.
He stopped just behind her.
Close enough.
Not touching yet.
"…It's not finished."
"…I know."
"…It could be."
A pause.
Then—
"…Not yet."
Leah looked at the window again.
Light catching in her eyes.
Soft.
But distant.
"…I still come here."
A beat.
"…Even when I shouldn't."
His gaze shifted slightly.
"…There's no reason you shouldn't."
"…There is."
A pause.
"…Everything going on."
"…That doesn't change this."
She let out a quiet breath.
"…It should."
"…It doesn't."
Simple.
Firm.
Unmoved.
Leah finally turned.
Her eyes met his.
Soft.
But something else was there.
Something heavier.
"…Iz."
A beat.
"…What?"
She hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then—
"…I still want this."
The words stayed in the air.
Simple.
But not light.
Izana didn't interrupt.
Didn't react immediately.
Just watched her.
Letting her finish.
Her fingers curled slightly against her palm.
"…Even with everything."
A small breath left her.
"…Even now."
Silence.
The kind that waits.
She looked away for a moment.
Toward the window again.
"…I know it's not the right time."
A pause.
"…Or maybe it is."
She shook her head slightly.
"…I don't know."
Her voice softened.
Quieter now.
"…I just know I don't want to let it go."
That was the truth.
Clear.
Uncertain.
But firm.
Izana stepped closer.
Slow.
Careful.
His presence steady beside her.
"…You think you have to."
Not a question.
She nodded slightly.
"…It feels like I should."
"…Because of him."
A pause.
"…Because of everything."
His gaze didn't leave her.
"…That doesn't change what you want."
"…It should."
"…It doesn't."
Simple.
Direct.
Certain.
Silence pressed in.
He didn't look away.
Didn't soften the truth.
"…It is dangerous."
Leah's chest tightened slightly.
"…Then why does it still feel right?"
The question slipped out.
Unfiltered.
Honest.
He didn't answer immediately.
Didn't rush it.
His gaze shifted briefly.
Thinking.
Then back to her.
"…Because it is."
She blinked once.
"…That doesn't make sense."
"…It does."
A pause.
"…Wanting something doesn't disappear because of risk."
Her fingers curled again.
"…But it should matter."
"…It does."
"…Then—."
"…It just doesn't erase it."
Silence again.
But softer this time.
Less heavy.
Leah looked down.
Then back up.
"…I'm scared."
The words were quiet.
But steady.
Izana didn't hesitate.
"…I know."
She looked at him again.
Searching.
"…You're not worried?"
A quiet second.
"…I am."
Honest.
No hesitation.
"…Then why—."
"…Because being careful doesn't mean stopping."
The words settled.
Slowly.
Leah's chest tightened slightly.
"…It's not just careful, Iz."
Her voice dropped.
"…It's dangerous."
A pause.
"…You almost—."
She stopped herself.
Didn't finish it.
Didn't need to.
His expression didn't change.
But his hand moved.
Gently.
Resting against her arm.
Grounding.
"…I know."
Quiet.
Steady.
She looked down briefly.
Then back up.
"…What if it happens again?"
A beat.
"…What if next time it's worse?"
The question lingered.
Sharp.
Real.
Izana didn't answer right away.
Didn't rush it.
His gaze shifted slightly.
Thinking.
Calculating.
Then—
"…Then we make sure it doesn't."
Her brows furrowed.
"…You can't control everything."
"…No."
"…Then how—."
"…I control what I can."
A pause.
"…And I eliminate what I can't."
His voice stayed calm.
Even.
But there was something beneath it.
Something firm.
Unshakable.
Leah studied him.
"…You're serious."
"…Always."
"…Even about this?"
"…Especially about this."
Silence returned.
But it wasn't empty.
It held weight.
Consideration.
Possibility.
Her fingers moved slightly.
Brushing against his cast.
Still marked with ink.
Her marks.
Her quiet claims.
"…I don't want to wait forever."
The words came softer this time.
But clearer.
Izana's gaze dropped briefly to her hand.
Then back to her.
"…You won't."
A pause.
"…But I won't rush it either."
She nodded slightly.
"…I'm not asking you to."
"…I know."
Another quiet second passed.
Then—
He stepped closer.
Closing the space between them.
His arm—
The one not in a cast—
Moved around her.
Careful.
Pulling her in.
Leah leaned into him.
Naturally.
Like she always did.
Her head resting lightly against his chest.
Listening to his steady heartbeat.
Grounding herself in it.
"…We'll do it right," he murmured.
Close.
"…Not carelessly."
A pause.
"…Not blindly."
His hand rested against her back.
Firm.
Reassuring.
"…But we won't stop either."
Leah closed her eyes briefly.
Letting the words settle.
Letting the weight ease.
Just a little.
"…Okay," she whispered.
Silence softened again.
Warmer now.
Safer.
For the moment.
She pulled back slightly.
Just enough to look at him.
"…You're still going to overwork yourself, aren't you?"
A faint shift in his expression.
"…Probably."
"…Iz."
"…I'll be careful."
"…You always say that."
"…And I mean it."
She sighed softly.
But there was a small smile now.
"…You're impossible."
"…You married me."
"…I did."
A pause.
"…I'd do it again."
That earned a faint smile from him.
She glanced around the nursery again.
The empty space.
The quiet.
But it didn't feel the same anymore.
Not completely empty.
Not like before.
Her hand rested lightly against her stomach again.
This time—
Not uncertain.
Not hesitant.
Just… steady.
"…We'll finish it," she said softly.
A pause.
"…Soon."
Izana followed her gaze.
Then looked back at her.
"…When it's time."
She nodded.
"…When it's time."
Outside the room—
The mansion remained tense.
Watched.
Guarded.
Nothing had changed.
Not really.
But inside—
Something had.
Leah stepped closer again.
Resting lightly against him.
Her hand finding his.
Careful of the cast.
Always careful.
"…We'll be okay," she murmured.
A quiet beat.
Then—
"…We will."
The nursery stayed quiet.
Unfinished.
Waiting.
But not empty.
Not anymore.
Because she hadn't let it go.
And she wasn't going to.