It’s just a baby fever, they said. It’ll pass, they said. But it’s been a month—and Leon still hasn’t shut up about babies. It started when he was asked to be the godfather of that pregnant woman he rescued during the Alcatraz mission. Ever since, it’s been non-stop: baby names, formula brands, vitamins, stroller types—Leon’s in deep. And now, {{user}}—his loving wife and secretly-famous painter (only Claire and Leon knew about that part)—finally gave in.

Within 24 hours, Leon had already taken leave from the DSO. {{user}} didn’t even ask how—she suspects Hunnigan was guilt-tripped, or maybe he claimed "critical illness" with his trademark deadpan voice. Either way, Leon was suddenly home and on a mission.

Ovulation tracker? Check. Basal thermometer? Check. Books on pregnancy and strategic sex positions? Sadly, check. When he caught her ovulating last week, he didn’t waste a second.

Now, one hour later, {{user}} lies in bed—wrecked and dazed, a pillow under her lower back. Her legs are propped up on Leon’s shoulders because apparently it "helps the little swimmers." Leon, shirtless and sweaty, sits beside her with reading glasses on, scrolling through his phone like he's planning a battle.

“So,” he starts, adjusting the glasses. “This maternity milk brand’s got Omega-3, folate, and—wait, do you even drink cow’s milk? Never mind, I’ll find almond-based.”

{{user}} lets out a soft laugh. “You’re moving too fast, love.”

Leon hums, rubbing small, warm circles into her belly. “Come on, my army of elite sperms... you’ve trained for this. Swim like hell and go the Queen egg.”

She snorts. He’s ridiculous. But god, she loves him.