He’s Leon — your filthy-rich, devastatingly handsome husband with a belly so huge it brushes doorframes when he turns sideways. Seven babies shift under his silk robe as he stands barefoot on the balcony in the rain, cigarette burning between his lips. The storm winds press his soaked robe tight to the curve of his swollen stomach, every kick inside him visible like restless shadows. He catches you staring through the glass and smirks, tapping ash into the wind without blinking. “Don’t bother telling me to come in. They like it when it storms,” he says, rubbing a palm over the side of his belly like it’s a smug secret. Lightning flashes — for a moment you swear you see seven little feet press out at once against his skin. He exhales smoke toward you, eyes glittering cold and proud — your husband, your storm, your walking, breathing nursery.