Morning sunlight spilled through the living room, soft and forgiving.
For the first time in months, there was no rush — no doctors, no corridors, no fear hiding in the corners.
Just the quiet music of home: the faint hum of the kettle, the baby's small coos, and the creak of the floorboards as Alexander moved barefoot across them.
Amelia was curled on the sofa in a long cardigan, her hair undone, the baby asleep on her chest.
She looked up as he came in, two mugs in his hands.
"Coffee for the hero?" he asked softly.
"I think we both know who the hero is," she said, smiling at the little bundle pressed against her heart.
He set one mug beside her, then leaned down and kissed her hair. "He looks like he's been through a board meeting."
"He has," she whispered. "At least three midnight negotiations."
Alexander chuckled, easing himself onto the sofa beside her. "You look so calm."
"I feel calm," she said, surprised by the truth of it. "Like the house finally remembered how to breathe."
They'd settled into a rhythm so simple it almost frightened her:
Mornings with sunlight and laughter, afternoons filled with walks around the garden, evenings spent half asleep on the sofa, whispering about nothing while the baby dreamed in his cot.
Sometimes Alexander worked a little — answering emails, reading reports — but even then, he always looked up when the baby sighed, as if that tiny sound had replaced the ticking of his old life.
It was a new world, and neither of them wanted to leave it.
That afternoon, they spread a blanket on the living room floor and laid the baby between them.
He kicked his legs lazily, his eyes following the light shifting across the ceiling.
"He's starting to look like you," Alexander said, tracing a finger across his tiny hand.
"Impossible," she said softly. "He smiles too easily."
He grinned. "And you think that's me?"
"I know it is."
Alexander laughed, but there was warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there before — a kind of awe he never bothered to hide anymore.
After a while, he said, "We still haven't chosen his name."
Amelia nodded. "I know. I keep waiting for it to feel obvious."
He lay back on the blanket, staring up at the ceiling. "You had your favourites. So did I."
She looked down at their son — his calm expression, his steady little breaths — and then back at him.
"Say them again," she whispered.
"Alright." He ticked them off on his fingers, smiling faintly. "Elliot, Arthur, Theo… Gabriel."
She smiled. "And Oliver."
"Oliver," he repeated, as if testing how it sounded in the air.
They fell silent, both listening to the name drift through the quiet.
Then the baby made a small, unexpected sound — half yawn, half sigh — and Alexander laughed softly.
"Was that approval?"
Amelia's smile trembled. "I think it might have been."
"Oliver, then?"
She looked at the baby, the man beside her, and the sunlight pooling around them — everything she'd almost lost, everything she'd somehow kept.
"Yes," she said quietly. "Oliver James Harrington."
Alexander exhaled, his eyes glistening. "Perfect."
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to his son's forehead. "Welcome officially to the world, Oliver James."
The baby stirred, opening his eyes just enough to look vaguely unimpressed, and both of them laughed.
"He's definitely yours," Amelia teased.
"Then we're in trouble," Alexander said, smiling.
That evening, they celebrated with the smallest of rituals.
Dinner was takeaway pizza, eaten straight from the box while the baby slept in his bassinet nearby.
They toasted with cheap sparkling water in wine glasses, pretending it was champagne.
"To Oliver," Alexander said, raising his glass.
"To Oliver," Amelia echoed, clinking hers against his.
"And to us," he added. "For somehow getting here."
She smiled. "To us."
The clink of glass sounded louder than it should have — or maybe it just meant more.
In the days that followed, life began to settle into something that almost resembled normality.
Alexander returned to work part-time, his driver picking him up midmorning.
Amelia would walk him to the door, Oliver tucked against her shoulder, and every morning before he left, Alexander would kiss them both.
"I'll be home before dinner," he always said.
And he always was.
They took turns with night feeds, traded yawns for laughter, and learned to navigate the quiet chaos of parenthood.
Some nights they fell asleep sitting upright on the sofa, the baby between them; other nights, they stayed awake just to watch him breathe.
The house, once echoing with the fear of loss, now sang with life — soft, steady, real.
One evening, a few weeks later, Amelia found Alexander standing at the nursery door again.
Oliver was asleep in his cot, his small chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm.
Alexander didn't move. He just whispered, "I keep waiting to wake up."
Amelia slipped her hand into his. "You already did."
He smiled then, the kind of smile that reached his eyes.
"Do you realise we've been through more in one year than most people face in a lifetime?"
"I do," she said softly. "And I'd still choose you every time."
He turned, kissed her, and murmured against her lips,
"And I'd still find my way back to you — every time."
They stood there in the hush of the nursery, their son dreaming between them, the city breathing quietly outside.
And for the first time since the world had turned itself upside down, there was no fear, no ache, no noise.
Just love — steady, patient, infinite.
The quiet season had come to stay.
…
The morning began with sunlight and laughter.
Golden light spilled across the kitchen tiles, catching on the ribbons tied to a line of pale blue balloons.
There were presents stacked on the dining table, a small cake cooling on the counter, and the faint hum of a playlist Alexander had insisted on making himself — a mixture of old jazz, lullabies, and a few songs that didn't belong anywhere except here.
Amelia stood by the stove, barefoot, her hair pulled back into a loose knot, stirring a pan of oatmeal while singing softly under her breath.
The smell of coffee drifted through the air.
From the hallway came a familiar sound — a pair of unsteady, determined footsteps and the unmistakable giggle that had redefined the sound of joy itself.
She turned just in time to see him.
Oliver, one year old that very morning, toddled across the floor with the cautious grace of a new explorer, his chubby hands clutching a wooden block like a trophy. His hair, impossibly golden in the morning light, curled slightly at the ends.
"Look at you," Amelia laughed, crouching down and opening her arms. "Come here, my love."
He wobbled once, regained balance, and walked the last few steps straight into her arms.
Alexander's voice floated from the doorway.
"That's my boy. First deal of the day successfully negotiated."
Amelia laughed as he came closer — still in his weekend shirt, sleeves rolled, barefoot too. "He's walking earlier than we expected."
Alexander crouched beside them, his eyes full of awe. "He's got your determination."
"Your stubbornness, you mean," she teased.
"Semantics," he said, kissing her cheek.
Oliver babbled something incoherent but cheerful, waving the block between them like an announcement.
"What's that, Ollie?" Amelia smiled. "Are you telling us you're ready for cake?"
"Cake is an acceptable reason to interrupt any schedule," Alexander declared. "Even on a Friday morning."
By late morning, the house was full.
Emma arrived first, carrying a ridiculously large gift bag and a grin to match.
"Happy birthday, my favourite godson!" she sang, kissing Amelia on both cheeks.
"Be careful, you'll make him think every visitor brings presents," Amelia laughed.
"That's the plan," Emma said, winking. "He deserves the world."
Then came Amelia's parents, arms full of boxes and flowers, followed by Alexander's grandmother — regal as ever, wearing pearls and carrying a framed photo she'd insisted belonged in Oliver's nursery.
When Alexander's mother appeared at the door a little later, Amelia felt something inside her ease.
They weren't just being polite anymore. Over the months, something soft had grown between them — quiet respect, quiet forgiveness.
"You've outdone yourself," Alexander's mother said, smiling as she surveyed the balloons. "It feels like spring in here."
"It's his day," Amelia said simply.
"It's yours too, darling," the older woman said softly. "You gave us him."
Amelia blushed, eyes shining.
The afternoon unfolded like a dream.
They sang Happy Birthday while Oliver stared at the candle, utterly mesmerised.
When Alexander helped him blow it out, the little one clapped his hands as if he'd conquered the universe.
There were photos — a hundred, maybe more — of family, friends, laughter frozen in the soft chaos of the day.
Oliver smeared icing across his cheeks, looked up at them both, and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Amelia reached over with a napkin, but Alexander caught her wrist gently.
"Leave it," he said, smiling. "It's a rite of passage."
She laughed, shaking her head. "You're hopeless."
"And completely happy," he said simply.
When the last guests left and the house quieted, Amelia and Alexander sat on the sofa together, Oliver asleep between them.
The soft hum of the baby monitor filled the silence.
"He looks older already," she whispered, watching his tiny chest rise and fall.
"He does," Alexander murmured. "It's terrifying."
Amelia smiled, leaning into him. "Do you ever think about last year?"
"Every day," he said honestly. "But not with fear anymore. More like… gratitude."
She nodded. "Me too."
He looked down at her hand resting on his and turned it palm up, tracing the faint line that curved across her skin.
"You know what I think when I look at him?"
"What?"
"That we didn't survive by luck. We survived because love refused to let us stop."
Amelia felt tears rise, soft and uncontrollable. "You always know what to say."
"Not always," he said quietly. "But with you, it's easy. You're the truth in every version of me."
She laughed through the tears. "That's terribly poetic for a man who once said 'I don't do small talk.'"
He grinned. "I lied."