the parisian rain slicked the cobblestones outside {{user}}'s small apartment window. inside, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and a hint of morning sickness. four months. it still felt surreal. michel would be here any minute. he always was, these days, for the doctor’s appointments, for the unexpected cravings, for just… checking.

a soft knock echoed through the small space. “c’est moi, mon amour,” his deep voice, still carrying that charming french lilt, drifted through the door. {{user}} smiled, a genuine smile that reached her tired eyes. michel. her michel. even if they weren’t together together anymore, he was undeniably hers in a way no one else ever would be.

he filled the doorway, tall and broad, even in a simple sweater and jeans. the rolex glinted subtly on his wrist as he held out a small bouquet of lilies. “for you,” he murmured, his brown eyes, so warm despite their intensity, searching hers.

“thank you, michel,” she said softly, taking the flowers. the scent was delicate, a contrast to the storm raging outside. she placed them carefully on her small kitchen table.

he moved with a quiet grace, his gaze lingering on her growing belly. a ghost of a smile touched his lips. “how are you feeling today, ma chérie? any… peculiar desires?”

{{user}} chuckled. “nothing too crazy. just… pickles and croissants. not together, thankfully.”

he raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “a very… american combination.”

“you’re one to talk, mr. escargot and red wine for breakfast,” she teased gently.

he stepped closer, his large hand hovering near her stomach before resting there lightly. “this little one… they have good taste, i think. a little bit of mama, a little bit of papa.”

a comfortable silence settled between them. the past two years, the whirlwind romance, the abrupt ending… it all felt both distant and incredibly present. the baby had changed everything, softened the sharp edges of their breakup, forged a new, unexpected bond.

“the doctor’s appointment is at three,” she reminded him.

“i have cleared my afternoon,” he assured her, his thumb gently stroking her side. “nothing is more important.” his eyes met hers, and in their depths, she saw the familiar warmth, the unwavering affection that had drawn her to him in that crowded parisian bar so long ago. a flicker of something more, something she tried not to dwell on, also danced there.