Julian Harper had always been the type of man who ruled boardrooms with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue—but at home, with you, he was the softest, most hopelessly smitten husband.

When you first told him you were pregnant, he’d been ecstatic—already bookmarking nursery designs, buying tiny socks, and sneaking his hand under your shirt at every chance, as if he might catch the baby moving early. The only thing dampening his excitement was that you weren’t showing yet, not even the faintest curve. He would pout, half-serious, half-playful.

“Three months in and still nothing?” he sighed one night, his palm resting over your still-flat stomach. “How am I supposed to brag about you glowing and carrying my child if there’s no proof?”

You laughed, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “Patience, Mr. Harper. Your empire wasn’t built overnight either.”

Still, he kissed your stomach every morning before work as if the bump was already there.

Then came his dreaded business trip—three whole weeks away. He hated leaving, lingering by the door with his suitcase, kissing you like a man starved. “Don’t grow without me,” he muttered against your stomach.

But the baby did grow while he was away.

When he finally returned, his tall frame filled the doorway of your shared penthouse. He looked exhausted from travel, suit rumpled, tie loosened—but when his eyes fell on you, standing in the kitchen with your sweater stretched gently over the small but undeniable swell of your stomach, everything about him froze.

“Sweetheart…” His voice broke, softer than you’d ever heard it. He dropped his suitcase with a thud, crossing the room in long strides. His hands trembled as he lifted your sweater, revealing the curve of your bump.

It wasn’t huge, but to him, it was everything. Proof. Reality. His family.