The following afternoon unfolded beneath a soft spring sun, the air outside gentler than it had been in weeks.
Amelia was running late, though for once, it wasn't because she'd misjudged the time—it was because she'd been too busy staring at the tiny human who now owned her entire day.
By one o'clock, the living room looked like a scene from a quiet domestic painting: the baby dressed in a pale blue sleepsuit, the pram waiting by the door, Amelia's hair pinned loosely back, a soft blush on her cheeks.
She tucked a folded muslin into the nappy bag, double-checked the bottle's temperature, then smiled down at her son.
"You ready, love? Daddy's waiting."
The baby blinked solemnly, unimpressed.
"I'll take that as a yes."
Thomas, the driver, helped her with the pram as always.
"You two look very smart today," he said, opening the car door.
"Big day," Amelia replied with a small smile. "He's going to walk to the door to meet us."
Thomas grinned. "Mr. Harrington never does anything halfway, does he?"
"No," Amelia said fondly. "He doesn't."
When they arrived at the hospital, the nurse on duty waved at her from the reception desk.
"Mrs. Harrington! He's been pacing all morning."
Amelia laughed softly. "I believe it."
The nurse leaned closer, smiling. "He refused lunch. Said, and I quote, 'I'll eat when my family's here.'"
Amelia's heart gave a small, helpless flutter. "That's very much like him."
She pushed the pram down the corridor toward Room 312, nerves dancing under her skin.
The door was half-open again, just like yesterday — but this time, someone was standing outside.
Alexander.
Not in bed, not hooked to monitors. Standing.
He wore a simple grey sweater and navy joggers, hospital wristband still on his arm, and when he turned and saw her, his entire face lit up.
He smiled — that kind of smile that rewires the air around it.
"Amelia," he said softly. "You made it."
Her throat tightened. "You're supposed to be resting."
"I am," he said solemnly. "I'm resting vertically."
She laughed, shaking her head, but the sound was shaky, full of emotion. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," he said, stepping closer. "But I'm better now."
When she reached him, he leaned down and kissed her — a soft, grateful kiss, brief but enough to remind her what breathing felt like.
He pulled back just enough to look at her properly. "You look beautiful."
"I look sleep-deprived."
"Beautiful," he repeated, brushing his thumb across her cheek.
Amelia's voice softened. "We missed you."
He smiled. "And I missed my family. Now—" he crouched beside the pram, voice dropping to a reverent whisper, "—can I finally say hello properly?"
The baby was half awake, making tiny curious noises as Alexander leaned in.
"Hey, you," he said quietly. "I told you we'd race, didn't I? Looks like you won."
He lifted the baby carefully, cradling him against his chest. The baby blinked once, then relaxed, as if already remembering this heartbeat.
Amelia watched, her arms folded loosely, heart aching with love.
Alexander kissed the baby's forehead. "That smell should be bottled," he said, eyes half closed.
Amelia laughed. "It's baby lotion and innocence."
He grinned, inhaling again. "Best thing I've ever owned."
The nurse appeared briefly at the door. "Mr. Harrington, lunch is ready whenever you want it."
"Later," he said, eyes still on his son.
Amelia smiled. "You have to eat."
He sighed dramatically. "Fine. But only if my dining companion stays."
"I'll stay," she said softly.
The afternoon unfolded like a slow melody.
They ate together — Amelia perched on the chair by the bed, Alexander with a hospital tray and a glass of apple juice that he pretended was wine.
Between bites, they talked about ordinary things: when she might return to work, how the baby loved bath time, how the tulips in their hallway had finally opened.
At one point, the baby stirred, and Alexander's whole face softened again.
"Let me try," he said, holding out his hands.
Amelia smiled. "You sure?"
"Positive."
She guided him through the process with the gentle patience of someone both amused and utterly in love.
"Okay," she said, watching as he laid the baby on the changing mat. "Undo the tabs, fold the dirty part in, wipe front to back, not the other way—"
"Ma'am, yes ma'am."
"—and don't take too long or—"
A tiny arc of liquid shot up mid-sentence, landing neatly across the front of his sweater.
Alexander froze.
Amelia burst into helpless laughter, leaning on the chair for balance.
"Oh, no," she managed between giggles. "He warned you yesterday."
Alexander blinked, then looked down at the culprit, who yawned, perfectly content. "You," he said solemnly, "are plotting against me."
Amelia was still laughing as she handed him a towel. "Congratulations. You've been officially initiated."
He shook his head, wiping the sweater. "He's lucky he's cute."
"He gets that from you," she teased.
"Unlikely," he said, smiling despite himself. "I'm chaos. He's serenity."
"Maybe you balance each other," she said softly, watching the way he re-wrapped the baby in the blanket, his movements already smoother.
He looked up at her then, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Something unspoken passed between them — a recognition that they had come through the worst and found something extraordinary waiting on the other side.
By four o'clock, the nurse peeked in again.
"Visiting ends soon," she said apologetically.
Amelia nodded. "We'll go in a minute."
Alexander held the baby close one last time, brushing his lips against the soft crown of his head.
"I'll see you tomorrow, little man," he whispered. "Try not to grow up too much overnight, alright?"
He handed him back to Amelia, their fingers brushing.
"Thank you for bringing him," he said quietly. "And thank you for not giving up on me."
"I never could," she said, voice trembling.
He smiled — that smile she'd fallen in love with long before she realised it. "I'll be home soon."
"I know."
He leaned in for one more kiss — slow, tender, full of everything they didn't need to say.
As she turned to leave, he called softly after her,
"Tell him his dad's crazy about him."
She looked back, smiling through tears. "He'll know."
Outside, the city was washed in late afternoon light — the kind that makes even ordinary things look touched by grace.
Amelia glanced down at the pram, her heart full.
"Daddy says he loves you," she whispered.
The baby's hand flexed, fingers curling around nothing and everything at once.
She smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks, and whispered, "I know, love. Me too."
…
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lilies — two things Amelia thought she might never separate again.
She sat in the small visitors' lounge with the baby sleeping in her arms, his tiny hand wrapped around her finger, and stared at the clock on the wall.
Every tick felt heavier than the last.
Alexander was upstairs, signing discharge forms, the doctors checking his vitals one last time.
He'd texted her an hour earlier:
They're finally letting me out.
Meet me at the entrance in twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes had stretched into sixty.
Hee heart kept pace with the clock — quick, hopeful, terrified.
When the elevator doors slid open, she looked up.
And there he was.
He looked taller somehow — still a little pale, still moving carefully, but alive. Truly alive.
Dressed simply in jeans, a white shirt, and a dark coat someone from the company must have dropped off for him. His hair was still slightly damp from a real shower, his jaw cleanly shaven.
He smiled when he saw her, and the world slowed.
Amelia stood, shifting the baby gently against her chest, and before she could speak, he crossed the space between them.
"I told you I'd walk to the door," he murmured, voice breaking just slightly.
"You did," she whispered. "And you kept your promise."
He reached for her free hand and brought it to his lips, eyes closing briefly. "Let's go home."
The nurses gathered at the entrance — all smiles, all pretending not to be emotional.
One of them handed Amelia a small envelope.
"Dr. Patel asked me to give you this — post-discharge instructions, his next appointments. And…" she smiled softly, "tell Mr. Harrington he's the first patient we've seen who managed to charm the entire cardiac wing."
Alexander chuckled, slipping his arm around Amelia's shoulders. "Occupational hazard."
"You mean personality disorder," Amelia teased.
He laughed, the sound soft and unguarded — a sound she had feared she might never hear again.
The driver was waiting by the curb.
Alexander froze when he saw the car seat.
"Is that—?"
"Yes," she said, smiling. "Your seat, sir. Reserved for very important passengers."
He crouched down and looked at the baby, who blinked up at him with sleepy disinterest.
"Hello again, little man," he said softly. "Your chauffeur is back on duty."
Amelia smiled. "If you can manage the instructions without falling asleep halfway."
He grinned and kissed her forehead. "Not a chance."
The drive home felt different this time.
The world outside looked familiar again — the curve of the streets, the rhythm of traffic lights, the faint drizzle that blurred the edges of the city.
Amelia sat beside him in the back seat, their son between them, tiny and oblivious to the enormity of the moment.
Every few minutes, Alexander's hand found hers. He didn't speak much, and he didn't need to. The silence between them said everything.
When the car turned onto their street, Amelia felt a lump rise in her throat.
The house appeared like something out of a memory — white shutters, the small magnolia tree by the gate just beginning to bloom.
Thomas parked and stepped out to open the door.
Alexander was already moving before he could help, careful but steady.
He turned to Amelia. "Let me."
He reached into the car, unbuckled the straps of the car seat, and lifted the baby into his arms with a reverence that made her chest ache.
"Welcome home, son," he whispered.
The front door opened with its familiar click.
Amelia followed him inside, breath catching at the sight — the same living room that had felt so empty days ago now alive again.
Sunlight poured through the windows, catching the soft blankets and the tulips that had bloomed wider overnight.
Alexander stood in the centre of the room, holding their baby, his eyes bright and wet.
He turned to her. "Do you remember the first time you came here?"
She smiled through the tears that were already threatening. "You offered me tea and told me you didn't do small talk."
He laughed quietly. "And you said you didn't date CEOs."
"I still don't," she said, teasing. "I married one."
That made him laugh harder — a full, honest laugh that broke into something softer halfway through.
He looked down at their son. "We made it, Amelia."
She walked to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her head against his shoulder.
"We did," she whispered. "You came back to us."
He held her tighter, his lips brushing her hair. "I was always coming back. I just needed to remember how to find my way home."
They spent the rest of the afternoon as though afraid to waste a single minute.
He changed into a soft sweater and sat on the sofa with their son sleeping on his chest while Amelia made tea.
They talked quietly — about nothing and everything.
At one point, he looked around the room and smiled faintly. "It feels smaller than I remember."
"That's because it's full now," she said softly.
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. I never liked empty spaces."
When evening came, they fed the baby together.
He fussed, flailing his small arms, and Alexander laughed through it all, his clumsy hands trying to help.
"You'd think I was negotiating a merger," he said, amused.
"You're doing fine," Amelia said, adjusting the bottle. "He already prefers you."
"Impossible."
"True," she admitted, smiling. "He prefers whoever feeds him fastest."
"Smart man," Alexander said. "That's my boy."
Later, when the house was quiet again, Amelia found him standing by the nursery door, staring at the cot.
"Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"
He turned, smiling gently. "More than okay."
She joined him, slipping her hand into his.
He squeezed it lightly. "Do you ever think about how close we came to losing all of this?"
Amelia's throat tightened. "Every day."
He nodded, eyes glistening. "Then maybe we'll never take any of it for granted."
"Never," she whispered.
That night, when the baby was finally asleep and the city had gone still, they curled up together on the sofa.
The TV was on mute, their hands intertwined, his heartbeat steady against her cheek.
Outside, rain began to fall — soft, rhythmic, cleansing.
Alexander brushed his lips against her temple.
"We survived," he murmured. "Now we live."
Amelia closed her eyes and smiled. "Yes," she whispered. "Now we live."
And for the first time since the world had fallen apart, it felt like a promise.