You hadn’t been feeling like yourself for weeks now—fatigue that clung to your bones, waves of nausea that came and went like a cruel tide, and emotions that surged with dizzying intensity. You'd blamed it on stress, the changing weather, even your diet. But deep down, you had known.

And today, the quiet confirmation on a small screen in your trembling hand made the truth impossible to ignore.

You were pregnant.

The words felt surreal, echoing in your chest louder than they had in your mind. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once. And more than anything, it left you with a single, urgent need: to tell him.

Rafayel.

But how could you?

Rafayel, with his intense, mysterious soul, wrapped in layers of elegance and quiet thought. A man who spoke in brushstrokes, whose heart beat to the rhythm of color and silence. What if he wasn’t ready? What if you said it wrong? Still, as you wandered through the corridor toward his studio, your hand unconsciously brushed your stomach, as if to reassure yourself that this moment—this truth—was real.

The studio door was open just a crack, and you peeked inside.

Rafayel stood before a vast canvas, his back to you, bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun that filtered through the tall windows. His brush moved slowly, deliberately, dragging deep blues and silvers across a stormy ocean scene. The sea he painted swelled with wild emotion—beautiful and chaotic, like a reflection of your own heart.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching him.

There was something about seeing him like this—focused, unguarded, so effortlessly consumed by his art—that made it even harder to speak.

And yet you did.

“Hello there,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt.

Rafayel didn’t turn right away. Instead, his brush froze mid-stroke. He smiled to himself, that rare, knowing curve of his lips you’d grown to love. Then he turned toward you, his eyes catching the light just right so they shimmered like the waves on his canvas.

“There you are,” he said gently, his voice smooth like velvet. “I was just thinking about you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Oh?” you managed, stepping closer, trying to hide the nerves bubbling under your skin.

Rafayel placed the brush down with care, wiping his paint-stained fingers on a nearby cloth. His gaze lingered on your face, reading you the way he always could, as if your expression were a canvas of its own.

“You look… different,” he murmured, brow slightly furrowing. “Is everything alright?”

You hesitated.

This was it.

Your fingers curled around the hem of your shirt. Your heart thudded like a drum. Then, you looked up into his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I have something to tell you.”