Chapter 24: Heartbeat of Home
The night ended with heartfelt goodbyes and promises to catch up soon. As Ozaire and I left the venue, the city lights twinkling around us, I couldn't help but feel hopeful about the journey ahead—one filled with new beginnings and cherished memories.
When we arrived back at the condominium, I felt a mix of emotions from the evening. The excitement and tension had left me drained, and I wasn't ready to return to my own room just yet. Instead, I decided to stay in Ozaire's place for the night.
Ozaire seemed to understand my need for comfort and didn't press me to go to my room. We settled on the couch in his living area, and I nestled in, feeling the warmth and security of his presence. He draped a soft blanket over us, and we spent the rest of the evening in quiet conversation, reflecting on the events of the night and talking about our future.
The calm and tranquility of the moment helped me unwind, and as I leaned against Ozaire, I felt a profound sense of peace and contentment.
As the night deepened, I found myself drifting into a comfortable, restful sleep on the couch, with Ozaire by my side. He stayed awake for a while longer, gently stroking my hair and ensuring I was settled.
When I woke up the next morning, the sun was casting a warm glow over the room. Ozaire was already up, preparing breakfast. He had set up a small table with a variety of breakfast items, including some of my favorite foods.
"Good morning," he greeted me with a soft smile as I stirred.
I smiled back, feeling grateful for his thoughtfulness. "Good morning. This looks amazing."
We enjoyed a quiet breakfast together, discussing our plans for the day. I felt reassured knowing that Ozaire was by my side and that we were facing our future together with a sense of partnership and love.
Month Five
The flutters turned into kicks.
At first, they felt like little bubbles popping low in my belly, but soon they grew stronger—definitive. Real. Life making itself known.
I remember the first time Ozaire felt it. He froze, hand on my stomach, eyes wide, like he'd touched a spark. We didn't say anything. We didn't have to. That moment said it all.
I started reading more—parenting blogs, pregnancy forums, and books stacked on my nightstand. Nesting instincts kicked in. I reorganized my wardrobe, cleared space, and slowly began transforming the extra room into something softer, calmer. A nursery.
Some nights I'd wake up from vivid dreams, my heart racing. Sometimes I'd find myself in tears for no reason. And every time, Ozaire was just... there. Quiet, steady, holding the space I didn't know I needed.
Month Six
The bump was unmistakable now. Strangers smiled at me more often. Some even offered seats. Others just stared.
I stopped hiding.
We attended our first prenatal class. Ozaire took notes—actual notes. It made me laugh so hard I almost cried. But the sight of him genuinely trying to prepare, fumbling through breathing exercises, made me love him in ways I hadn't yet understood.
The nursery began to take shape. It started as a blank room in Ozaire's condo—just plain white walls, an untouched floor, and a sense of something waiting. But slowly, it transformed.
We chose soft hues for the walls—a muted lavender mixed with pale gray, the kind of color that felt like early morning or a hush between lullabies. It wasn't just a baby's room; it was a promise. A quiet place carved out of our chaotic lives, where innocence would live.
Ozaire spent hours obsessing over paint swatches and star stickers, even though I kept telling him it didn't have to be perfect. But that was who he was. He wanted the stars to look like real constellations. He wanted our child to fall asleep under the same myths we grew up believing.
One afternoon, the scent of fresh paint still lingering in the air, I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, surrounded by pillows, cradling a jar of pickles in one hand and a spoonful of peanut butter in the other. The cravings had reached a strange, but oddly satisfying peak. I alternated bites while watching Ozaire stand on a stepladder, completely focused as he painted tiny constellations across the ceiling.
He furrowed his brows, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. A smear of silver paint streaked across his forearm, and there were faint smudges on his shirt, but he didn't care. He was in it—tracing stars and stories above us.
"I think I made Orion's belt crooked," he muttered.
I laughed, the sound echoing softly in the half-furnished room. "It's okay. Stars aren't always symmetrical. They're just... exactly where they need to be."
He glanced down at me with a lopsided smile. "That's a very poetic way of saying I messed it up."
I shrugged, licking peanut butter off my spoon. "You're painting the sky for our baby. I think that earns you a little grace."
After a while, he climbed down and stood beside me, both of us looking up at his handiwork. The ceiling shimmered faintly with metallic paint, constellations catching the light like quiet magic.
"I used to stare at the stars when I couldn't sleep," he said quietly. "I thought if I looked long enough, they'd give me answers."
I leaned into him, resting my head against his side. "Maybe now, they'll help our baby dream."
That moment felt sacred. The room wasn't finished, but it already held love in every corner—the books we once loved, the lullabies I was humming under my breath without realizing, the way Ozaire looked at the ceiling like he was giving our child the universe.
It was simple. It was quiet. And it was ours.
It was oddly perfect.
Month Seven
Swelling. Backaches. Breathlessness. My body was working overtime.
I started slowing down—walking instead of training, sitting when I needed to, sleeping with too many pillows. Still, I stayed grounded. Every kick reminded me why.
One day, Ozaire came home from the grocery store with a bag of snacks in one hand and a crumpled piece of notebook paper in the other. I didn't think much of it at first—he was always scribbling things down. Ideas, reminders, grocery lists with doodles in the margins. But this time, there was a different kind of excitement in his eyes.
"I have something for you," he said, sliding onto the couch beside me. He handed me the paper like it was a treasure map.
I raised an eyebrow. "Please tell me this isn't another weird food combo you want me to try."
"Nope," he grinned. "Baby names."
I blinked, surprised—and maybe a little touched. "You made a list?"
"A very serious, totally comprehensive, and not at all ridiculous list," he said, already laughing.
I unfolded the page.
The handwriting was a mix of neat and messy, names written in bold letters with tiny scribbles beside them like "cool nickname potential" or "sounds strong," and one that just said "feels like sunlight." Some names were traditional, some were clearly inspired by fantasy books we both loved, and one—just one—made my heart stutter.
I didn't say anything at first. I laughed at the ones that sounded like cartoon characters or over-the-top action heroes. I cringed at the alliterations. I teased him mercilessly for the one name that rhymed with "tofu."
But that one name... I kept circling back to it.
It sat quietly in the middle of the list. Not flashy, not dramatic. Just... right. There was something about the way it looked in his handwriting. Something about how he'd written a tiny note next to it that said, "feels like home."
I tucked the paper away in the book I was reading, pretending not to care.
"I'm guessing that's a no to Cosmo Thunder Elrod?" he joked, flopping back onto the cushions beside me.
"Hard pass," I replied, but I was smiling.
That night, after he'd fallen asleep beside me, snoring softly with a hand resting near my stomach, I pulled out the list again. My fingers traced that one name over and over. I whispered it under my breath, testing how it felt on my tongue.
It fit. Not just the baby—me, him, us. It was the kind of name that sounded like beginnings. Like sunlit mornings and soft blankets and stories before bed.
I didn't tell him right away that I loved it.
But I'd already chosen it in my heart.
The baby shower came and went. Yasha cried. Reese brought a custom baby onesie. Yuan gave me a handmade dreamcatcher. And the rest of my sisters and boys all give us things the baby might need. The love in the room was overwhelming.
That night, I fell asleep with one hand on my belly and the other in Ozaire's.
Month Eight
False alarms.
Every twinge, every tightening made me wonder: Is this it?
I started organizing everything obsessively—hospital bags, diapers, bottle sets, playlists for labor. The anticipation made time feel both fast and unbearably slow.
Ozaire and I started practicing our hospital route. Twice.
We had long talks in bed, sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about everything. The fear crept in late at night—what kind of mother would I be? What kind of father would he become? Would we be enough?
He always answered my silence with a hand wrapped around mine and said, "One day at a time."
Month Nine
I was ready.
Uncomfortable, impatient, but also strangely calm. The quiet before a storm.
My belly was a world of its own. I felt heavy in every sense—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I cried over a spilled smoothie. I laughed during a Braxton Hicks contraction. I was an ocean of contradictions.
The nursery was done. The crib waited. My hospital bag was by the door. Hope and fear took turns visiting.
And still, the baby waited.
Until one early morning, when I felt something shift.
A deep ache. A rhythmic pull.
It had begun.
"He said we'd take it one day at a time. And now, day one was finally here."