POV: Sofia
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"Trying" for a baby, I discovered, was a lot more fun than I'd expected.
Not that I'd expected it to be unpleasant—Antonio was, after all, Antonio. But I hadn't anticipated the way he'd look at me now, with that new heat in his eyes. The way he'd find excuses to touch me. The way he'd pull me into empty rooms, lock doors, remind me that we had a very important project to work on.
"You're insatiable," I said one night, after he'd dragged me away from the dishes for the third time.
"You're the one who wanted a baby."
"I wanted a baby. I didn't sign up for a husband who can't keep his hands to himself."
He grinned—actually grinned, like a boy caught stealing cookies.
"You're not complaining."
I wasn't. But I wasn't going to admit that.
"Maybe I want to finish the dishes."
"The dishes can wait."
He pulled me close, kissed me until I forgot what dishes were.
---
ANTONIO
I hadn't expected to enjoy this so much.
The trying, yes—that was obvious. But the waiting. The hoping. The imagining. Waking up next to Sofia every morning, wondering if this was the day. Coming home every night, looking for signs, for changes, for anything that told me our family was growing.
"You're obsessed," Marco observed when I canceled a meeting to take Sofia to lunch.
"I'm in love."
"Same thing, with you." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"Keep talking and I'll fire you."
"You can't fire me. I'm your best friend."
"Then act like it and stop teasing me about my wife."
He laughed, clapped me on the shoulder. "Fine. Go have lunch. I'll handle things here."
I went. Because Sofia was waiting. Because I'd rather be with her than anywhere else. Because every moment with her felt like borrowed time, and I wasn't going to waste a single one.
---
SOFIA
Two months passed. Then three.
No baby.
I tried not to think about it. Tried not to count the days, track the cycles, analyze every symptom. Tried to enjoy the trying without obsessing over the results.
But at night, when Antonio was asleep, I'd lie awake and wonder. Was something wrong with me? With us? Were we trying too hard? Not hard enough?
"You're thinking too loud," Antonio murmured one night.
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Talk to me."
I was quiet for a moment. Then: "What if it doesn't happen? What if I can't—"
"Then we try something else. Adoption. Surrogacy. Whatever we need to do." He pulled me close. "The baby isn't what matters. You are. We are. The rest is just details."
"You really mean that?"
"I really mean it." He kissed my forehead. "I didn't marry you to have children, Sofia. I married you because I can't imagine my life without you. Everything else is extra."
I held him tight, let the fear drain away.
"I love you."
"I love you too. Now go to sleep."
I closed my eyes, and for the first time in weeks, I slept.
---
ANTONIO
Three days later, Sofia woke me at dawn.
"Antonio. Antonio, wake up."
I opened my eyes. She was sitting up in bed, a small white stick in her hand, tears streaming down her face.
"What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She laughed, cried, held up the stick. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's right."
I looked at the two pink lines. Looked at her.
"A baby?"
"A baby."
I pulled her into my arms, buried my face in her hair, and cried.
