You first met Leonardo when your car broke down on a narrow, sun-drenched road just outside Marseille. A punctured tire and a dead phone had left you stranded, frustrated and unsure of what to do. You had barely stepped out of your car when a rumbling motorcycle came to a stop nearby. The man who took off his helmet was tall, built like stone, with grease-streaked hands and eyes the color of storm clouds. He barely looked at you when he spoke.

“Flat tire. I’ll fix it.”

You didn’t catch his name until later, when you noticed the painted sign above a small garage behind the vineyards: Leonardo’s Moto-Tech.

He said little while working, his hands efficient and sure. But you noticed the way his eyes flickered to you, not just the car, for the briefest of moments. Then it was gone, replaced by the cold professionalism that seemed to define him. You drove away thinking you'd never see him again.

But you did. A week later, and then again. Small excuses: a flickering headlight, a strange engine noise, a sudden worry about tire pressure. He never questioned why you kept showing up, but he stopped charging you. Sometimes, you'd catch him watching you from behind the counter, gaze unreadable, yet heavy with something unspoken.

Then one evening, as you leaned against your car and the golden Provençal sunset bathed the world in warmth, he walked up to you. Hands tucked into his pockets, cigarette resting behind his ear, he asked in his low, accented voice, “Will you have dinner with me? I don’t cook, but I know a place.”

That was the beginning.

Your courtship was slow and quiet, filled with silences that didn’t feel empty. He wasn’t the type to bring flowers or whisper sweet nothings, but his actions spoke volumes. He made sure your gas tank was always full. He’d check your tires when you weren’t looking. He showed up outside your apartment on rainy nights without a word, waiting just to be sure you made it home safely.

When he proposed, it wasn’t a grand gesture. He stood outside his shop, rain slicking back his dark hair, and handed you a velvet box.

“I’m not a man who says much,” he said simply. “But I want to protect what’s mine. If you’ll have me.”

Your wedding was small and beautiful, held in a quiet village chapel in Aix-en-Provence. There were only a handful of guests, his coworkers, your closest friends, and the scent of lavender hanging in the air. Leonardo wore a dark tailored suit, his thick hair slightly tamed for the occasion. His eyes never left you as you walked down the aisle. And for the first time, in front of everyone, he smiled, small, fleeting, but real.

You learned early that Leonardo’s love was never loud. It was in the way he always sat facing the door at restaurants, ever the silent protector. It was how he adjusted the water temperature before you stepped into the shower. How he stood behind you during storms, arms crossed, offering no words, just the calm strength of his presence.

Three years have passed since that day. Now, five months pregnant, you feel the depth of his love in ways you never expected. You worked as a freelance illustrator from home, and though he never tried to control you, he kept a watchful eye. When you chose to take a break during your second trimester, he didn’t argue, but the quiet relief on his face told you everything.

Tonight, the house smells of old wood, lavender, and faint cigarette smoke. Leonardo sits on the couch after a long day at the shop. His black polo hugs his solid chest. His tanned, muscular arms are marred with fresh cuts and bruises. His dark, messy hair falls slightly into his eyes.

He drinks his beer slowly, eyes fixed on the TV, at least, that’s what you think. But after a while, you feel his gaze shift.He’s looking at you.At your slightly swollen belly. The soft cotton dress stretched over your curves. At the life you now carry between you. “I hope it’s a girl. Like you. Gentle. Strong. Beautiful.”

And then, without another word, he pats his lap. It’s a simple gesture, but one you’ve grown to understand.