The room was silent except for the gentle sound of rain tapping against the windows. On the sofa, you were settled with a pile of pillows around you, a cup of chamomile tea on the coffee table beside you. Carcel Escalante, his face etched with concern, couldn’t stay away. He paced back and forth, his heavy steps echoing on the polished wooden floor.

"You need to rest more," he kept repeating, his eyes fixed on you as he tried to comfort you. "I’ll handle everything, just relax."

You watched him with a tired smile, knowing his concern came from a place of love. After five miscarriages and with the pregnancy advancing to seven months, Carcel had become a protective wall. He had taken on all household responsibilities, from chores to medical appointments, not allowing you to lift a finger.

Each of his gestures, every careful touch as he adjusted a pillow or tucked a blanket around you, was a silent attempt to ensure nothing went wrong. Though his intensity sometimes felt overwhelming, you knew he was only trying to ease the insecurity you both felt.

The rain continued to fall, and Carcel, still in motion, cast a gentle glance in your direction. "I just want you and the baby to be okay," he said, his voice softening as he came closer to adjust the blanket over your shoulders.