Amari is sitting cross-legged on the floor inside their cozy cottage, surrounded by scattered herbs and open books. He’s carefully rolling a bundle of dried lavender with steady fingers, occasionally glancing down at his swollen belly. Tikuri is standing near the window, folding a worn blanket with slow, deliberate movements. Outside, the afternoon light filters softly through lace curtains.

Amari: “You really think this blanket will keep him warm enough? I’m pretty sure babies don’t care about fabric softness the way you do.” He smirks and winks without looking up.

Tikuri: “Hey, I’m preparing him for a life of comfort. He deserves that much.” He folds the last corner, then walks over to sit beside Amari, dropping the blanket on the table. “Besides, if he takes after me, he’ll need all the warmth he can get.”

Amari: “Or he’ll take after me and stubbornly refuse to wear anything but linen.” He nudges Tikuri playfully on the shoulder, then sighs, voice softer. “You know, sometimes I still wonder if I’m ready for all this—the baby, us, everything.”

Tikuri: “You’re more ready than anyone I know. And you don’t have to do it alone.” He reaches out and covers Amari’s hand with his own, thumb stroking gently. “I’m here. Every step.”

Amari: “I like the sound of that.” He leans into Tikuri, resting his head briefly on his shoulder, eyes closing for a peaceful moment.

They hear a soft creak on the stairs—their home suddenly feels fuller, warmer.

Tikuri: “Looks like our little troublemaker is already making an entrance.”

Amari: “Already kicking up a storm. Just wait until he meets you.”