Someday, Today

by CressidaGrey

Summary:

Charles Leclerc goes to meet his newborn niece and immediately slides headfirst into baby fever.
Unfortunately for his wife, Aimée, who has been trying to find the right moment to tell him she is already pregnant.
Unfortunately for everyone, Arthur Leclerc has known since the sushi incident and is being exactly as unbearable about it as expected.

Arthur found out because of the salmon nigiri.

Which, in hindsight, was humiliating.

Aimée had spent three days being careful.

Careful with her expressions. Careful with her phone. Careful with the little white box hidden in the back of her underwear drawer. Careful with the way she pressed her palm to her stomach when she thought nobody was looking.

She had made it through dinner with Pascale, a call with Charlotte, and two FaceTimes with Charles from Maranello, where he had looked exhausted and beautiful and completely unaware that his wife had been sitting on their bathroom floor five minutes earlier, staring at a positive pregnancy test and trying not to throw up from fear.

She had survived all of that.

And then her best friend noticed she was not eating sushi. 

“You’re not having the salmon?”

Aimée froze with her chopsticks halfway to the cucumber maki.

Across from her, Arthur sat cross-legged on her and Charles’ living room floor, surrounded by takeout cartons and the remains of the dumplings he had already demolished despite claiming he “wasn’t that hungry.”

Aimée at Arthur. “What?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

Oh no.

Aimée knew that look.

She had known Arthur Leclerc since they were children, since scraped knees and school uniforms and afternoons spent chasing each other through Monaco streets with the kind of wild, breathless devotion that only childhood best friends could have. 

She knew every version of his face.

The innocent one was fake.

The offended one was usually real.

The smug one meant trouble.

And this one, the narrowed eyes, slightly tilted head, suspicious silence one? This one meant he had found a thread and would not stop pulling until the entire jumper came apart.

“You’re not eating the salmon nigiri,” Arthur repeated.

Aimée forced herself to shrug. “I’m not in the mood.”

Arthur blinked. Once. Slowly.

“You,” he said, “are not in the mood for salmon nigiri.”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“Arthur.”

“The same Aimée who once threatened to end our friendship because I took the last piece?”

“You deserved that.”

Arthur pointed his chopsticks at her. “You love salmon nigiri.”

“I am allowed to change.”

“No, you are not. Not about sushi.”

Aimée reached for a soy sauce packet.

It did not open. She pulled harder. It still did not open.

She should have left it there. She should have put it down, taken another packet, laughed it off. But her emotions, already sitting far too close to the surface these days, surged up with absolutely no warning.

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned.

The soy sauce packet remained sealed.

Of course it did.

Of course, the stupid packet would not open. 

Of course, Charles was in Maranello. 

Of course, she had found out while he was away. 

Of course, her body had decided to change their entire lives before she had even worked out how to say the words aloud.

Of course, Arthur Leclerc, menace, best friend,  younger brother, human lie detector when it came to her, would notice the sushi.

A tear slipped down her cheek. 

Arthur went very still. “Aimée?”

“I hate this packet,” she said, voice wobbling.

Arthur lowered his chopsticks. “It is soy sauce.”

“I know what it is.”

“It should not make you cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You are actively crying.”

“I’m frustrated.”

“At soy sauce?”

“Yes.”

Arthur stared at her.

Aimée stared back.

Another tear fell.

His expression changed. He looked at the untouched salmon. Then at the glass of water beside her instead of the wine she usually poured on takeout nights. Then at her face.

Then, very slowly, at her stomach.

Aimée stopped breathing.

“No,” she said immediately.

Arthur’s eyes flew back to hers. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Arthur leaned forward, voice dropping. “Are you pregnant?”

Aimée locked up.

For one horrible second, she considered lying.

She had lied to Pascale when Pascale asked why she looked pale. She had lied to Charles when he asked if she had eaten enough. She had lied to Charlotte when Charlotte asked if she wanted to come over for tea and baby shopping later in the week.

But this was Arthur.

Arthur, who had once climbed through her bedroom window when they were fifteen because she had called him crying and refused to explain why over the phone.

Arthur, who had stood between her and her father’s shouting so many times that eventually her father had stopped bothering when Arthur was in the house. 

Arthur, who had held her hand outside the church on her wedding day because her own father had not been invited, because her mother had sent a message through an aunt saying she hoped Aimée understood “actions had consequences,” because every person who should have loved her without condition had made love feel like a debt she had failed to repay.

Arthur, who had walked her down the aisle.

Arthur, who had kissed her cheek before giving her to Charles and whispered, I told you he would love you properly.

Aimée could not lie to Arthur.

Her face crumpled. 

Arthur sucked in a breath. “Oh,” he said softly. “Aimée.”

The tears came all at once then, hot and humiliating and impossible to stop. She put the soy sauce packet down because somehow still holding it made everything worse.

Arthur was across the coffee table in an instant, nearly kicking over the dumplings and definitely knocking over the edamame, which was promptly sacrificed to Leo. He sat beside her on the sofa and pulled her into his arms like he had been doing it his whole life.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Aimée shook her head against his hoodie.

“I didn’t mean to find out,” Arthur said quickly. “I’m sorry. I was joking. I was being annoying. I didn’t think—”

“No,” she managed. “It’s not that.”

Arthur went quiet.

That was the thing about Arthur.

He could be loud. Ridiculous. Smug in a way that made people want to throw cushions at his head. He could turn any family dinner into a crime scene of teasing and bad jokes.

But when it mattered, Arthur knew how to be quiet.

He had learned that for her.

“Is it Charles?” he asked carefully.

Aimée pulled back immediately. “No.”

Arthur’s face softened.

“No,” she repeated, fiercely this time, wiping under her eyes. “No, of course not. Charles is—Charles will be wonderful. I know he will. I know that.”

Arthur watched her for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

“He wants children,” she said. “We’ve talked about it. Not in a planned way, not like calendars and ovulation tests and nursery colours, but we’ve talked about someday. He said someday would be nice.”

Arthur’s mouth twitched. “Charles saying ‘nice’ about having children probably meant he has already imagined them learning piano.”

Aimée let out a broken little laugh. “Probably.”

“He has also definitely imagined them in Ferrari overalls.”

“Definitely.”

“And karting.”

“I told him no karting before four.”

Arthur made a face. “Cruel.”

“Reasonable.”

“Cruel, but fine.”

The almost-laughter disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Aimée looked down at her hands.

Her engagement ring caught the light from the lamp beside the sofa. Simple, elegant, chosen by Charles with so much care that she had cried when he explained why he picked it. A ring that said she belonged to someone who had never once treated belonging like ownership.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Because it wasn’t planned?”

Aimée nodded, then shook her head. “It wasn’t planned. Charles is in the middle of the season, and I know babies never come at convenient times, but I thought I would be calmer. Happier. I am happy. I look at the test and I can’t breathe because I’m happy, and then two seconds later I can’t breathe because I’m terrified.”

Arthur’s expression gentled.

“And I keep thinking,” Aimée admitted, voice shrinking, “what if I don’t know how?”

“How to what?”

“Be a mother.”

Arthur stared at her like she had personally offended him. “Aimée.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t exactly have a good example in my own mother.”

The words sat between them.

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

Aimée looked away.

She hated talking about her family. Hated the way even naming them made her feel small again. She had spent years building a life away from them, a life filled with people who did not make affection conditional, who did not turn every achievement into a criticism, every mistake into proof, every vulnerability into ammunition.

But pregnancy had cracked something open.

It had made her think of mothers.

Of fathers.

Of childhood bedrooms with closed doors and voices raised downstairs. 

Of school events attended by nobody. 

Of birthdays where Arthur’s family had somehow made more effort than her own.

Of Pascale setting an extra plate without making a fuss when Aimée appeared at dinner because going home felt impossible.

Of her mother saying, You are too sensitive.

Of her father saying, No wonder people leave.

Of Arthur standing beside her on her wedding day because there had been no one else she trusted to walk her forward.

“I keep thinking,” Aimée whispered, “what if it’s in me?”

Arthur’s face changed completely. “No.”

The word was immediate. Hard.

Aimée flinched despite herself, not from fear of him, but from the force of it.

Arthur softened his voice, but not his certainty. “No. Aimée, no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to—”

“To be raised by your parents? No. I don’t.” Arthur’s eyes shone now, angry and hurt on her behalf in a way that made her throat ache. “But I know you. I know you better than almost anyone. And there is nothing of them in the way you love people.”

Aimée pressed her lips together.

Arthur leaned closer.

“Nothing,” he repeated.

She closed her eyes.

“You think I would have let Charles marry you if I thought you were secretly horrible?” Arthur asked.

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Arthur looked pleased with himself.

“I am serious,” he said. “I am very protective of him.”

“You set us up.”

“Yes, because I am a genius.”

“You were eighteen and annoying.”

“I was eighteen, annoying, and correct.”

Aimée wiped at her cheeks. “You told me he was less dramatic than he looked.”

Arthur winced. “Okay, that was maybe a lie.”

Despite herself, Aimée smiled.

Arthur saw it and pressed his advantage, because of course he did. “I knew you would be good for him,” he said. “I knew before either of you did.”

“You knew because you were bored and wanted to meddle.”

“I knew,” Arthur insisted, “because Charles needed someone who would not treat him like Charles Leclerc, Ferrari driver, national treasure, walking anxiety disorder.”

Aimée snorted.

“He needed someone who would look at him when he was being dramatic and tell him to drink water.”

“I do that.”

“Yes. Beautifully.” Arthur nudged her knee with his. “And you needed someone who would love you without making you beg for it.”

Aimée’s smile faltered.

Arthur’s expression softened again. “That was him,” he said quietly. “I knew it could be him.”

She looked down at her ring. “I was scared of him at first,” she admitted.

Arthur blinked. “Charles?”

“Not scared like that. Just…” She searched for the words. “He was Charles. Your brother. Everyone loved him. Everyone looked at him. And I thought, if he ever loved me, he would eventually realize it was a mistake.”

Arthur’s face did something complicated and sad.

“But he didn’t,” she said.

“No,” Arthur said. “He didn’t.”

“He just kept loving me.”

“Annoying, isn’t it?”

Aimée laughed softly.

Arthur smiled, then reached out and squeezed her hand.

“You are not your parents,” he said. “You are the person who remembers every birthday. You are the person who used to sneak extra food into my bag because you thought I wasn’t eating enough between school and karting. You are the person who listened to Charles talk about brake balance for forty minutes on your second date and somehow still married him.”

“That was heroic of me.”

“It was saintlike.” Arthur’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “You are the person who made my brother feel like he could come home from a bad race and not have to act like he was okay. Do you understand how big that is for him?”

Aimée swallowed.

“You did not have to earn him, ” Arthur said. “And you don’t have to earn your baby either.”

The words landed so precisely that Aimée almost hated him for them.

Her hand moved to her stomach.

Still flat. Still secret. Still terrifying.

Arthur looked down at the movement, and his face softened into something that made him suddenly look older than he usually did to her. Not the little boy she had grown up with. Not the chaotic brother-in-law who stole leftovers and sent her memes at midnight.

A man.

Her oldest friend.

Her family, in every way that mattered.

“You’re going to be a great maman,” he said.

Aimée’s eyes filled again. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because you already love this baby enough to be terrified of getting it wrong.”

She pressed her lips together.

Arthur squeezed her hand again. “Bad parents don’t panic about whether they’ll be good enough.”

Aimée looked at him.

Arthur shrugged, but his eyes were serious. “They just assume they’re right.”

That one hurt.

Aimée breathed in slowly.

Then out.

Arthur reached for a napkin and handed it to her.

She took it. “This is not how I planned to tell anyone.”

“I would hope not,” Arthur said. “Because if your plan was crying over soy sauce, I would have had notes.”

She laughed again and shoved his shoulder.

He grinned. “There she is.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I found out before Charles. I will be smug until I die.”

“Arthur.”

“I am going to be unbearable.”

Aimée groaned and leaned back against the sofa.

Arthur leaned back beside her, shoulder pressed to hers.

For a moment, they sat in quiet, the apartment soft around them.

It still sometimes startled Aimée, living here. Charles had insisted she make it theirs after they married, which meant there were now books on the shelves that had nothing to do with racing, soft blankets draped over the sofa, framed photos from ordinary days mixed in with podium shots, and a ridiculous ceramic bowl Arthur had made in a pottery class that looked vaguely like it had melted in a house fire.

(Charles hated the bowl. Aimée loved it. Arthur claimed this was proof she had taste. Charles claimed it was proof she loved Arthur too much.)

This apartment was safe.

That was the word she came back to again and again.

Safe.

It held Charles’ laughter. Pascale’s voice from Sunday lunches. Lorenzo’s calm presence. Charlotte’s teasing smile. The life Aimée had not believed she was allowed to have until it was already built around her.

And now there was going to be a baby in it.

A baby who would have Charles’ eyes, maybe. Or his dimples. Or her stubbornness.

God help them, maybe Arthur’s talent for emotional blackmail.

Aimée put a hand over her stomach again.

Arthur noticed. “Does Charles really not know?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“When is he back?”

“Tomorrow.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re waiting until tomorrow?”

“I wanted to do it properly.”

“With a tiny Ferrari onesie?”

Aimée stared at him.

Arthur grinned. “Please. I know my brother. Of course there is a tiny Ferrari onesie.”

“There is,” she admitted.

Arthur made a noise of disgust. “Predictable.”

“It’s very small.”

His face softened immediately. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Too small. Stupidly small.”

“Babies are like that.”

“You have so much experience with babies?”

“I am about to be an uncle. I am preparing.”

Aimée rolled her eyes.

Arthur was quiet for a beat.

Then, cautiously, he asked, “Do you want me to be here when you tell him?”

The question made something twist in her chest.

Because part of her did.

Not because she was afraid Charles would react badly. She truly was not. Charles loved with his whole self, openly and sometimes overwhelmingly. He would cry. He would probably say something in three languages. He would hold her too tightly and then panic that he was holding her too tightly. He would kiss her stomach even though there was nothing to see yet.

But still, some small damaged part of her wanted Arthur nearby.

The same way he had been nearby on her wedding day.

The same way he had been nearby for every awful phone call with her mother, every birthday her family had forgotten, every time Aimée had been forced to remember that biology did not always make people safe.

Arthur must have seen the answer flicker across her face, because he softened.

“I can be in the building,” he offered. “Not in the room. I am not a pervert.”

Aimée laughed. “How generous.”

“I can be downstairs. Or I can come over after. Or I can stay away completely and pretend I know nothing, although that will be hard because I am glowing with knowledge.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Arthur said. “But I am your ridiculous.”

Aimée leaned her head onto his shoulder. His arm came around her automatically. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Arthur kissed the top of her head.

“Always.”

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, she let herself be exactly as scared as she was. She let herself think of the test. Of Charles. Of tiny socks. Of the family she had come from and the family she had chosen and the family she was somehow, impossibly, making.

Then Arthur said, “I am going to be the godfather, obviously.”

Aimée opened her eyes. “Obviously?”

“Yes.”

“Charles may have opinions.”

Arthur scoffed. “Charles owes me his entire marriage.”

“He does not.”

“He does. I introduced you.”

“You invited me to dinner and then abandoned me with him because you ‘forgot’ you had plans.”

Arthur looked deeply proud. “Masterful.”

“You locked us on the balcony two weeks later.”

“For seven minutes.”

“It was February.”

“Romance requires sacrifice.”

Aimée lifted her head and stared at him.

Arthur stared back, entirely unrepentant.

“You truly think you engineered our marriage.”

“I know I engineered your marriage.”

“You were an annoying teenager with a crush on your own cleverness!”

“And now you are pregnant with my brother’s baby.”

Aimée opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Arthur spread his hands.

“Evidence,” he said.

She hated him. She loved him so much it hurt. “You are not allowed to tell anyone,” she said.

Arthur placed a hand over his heart. “I swear.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Not Lorenzo.”

“No.”

“Not Pascale.”

“God, no. She would start knitting immediately.”

“Not Charles.”

Arthur gave her a look. “Aimée.”

Her throat tightened again, but this time for a different reason. “I know,” she said softly. “Sorry.”

Arthur squeezed her shoulder. “You get to tell him.”

She nodded.

“And he will be happy.” She nodded again, less certain this time.

Arthur angled toward her. “Aimée.”

“I know.”

“No. Listen to me.” His voice was firm enough that she did. “Charles is going to lose his mind.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “You think?”

“I think he is going to cry so hard you will worry about dehydration.”

A laugh slipped out.

“I think,” Arthur continued, “he is going to start talking to your stomach immediately. In French. Maybe Italian. Probably both. He is going to ask if the baby can hear him even though the baby is the size of a raspberry.”

“Blueberry,” Aimée corrected automatically.

Arthur froze.

His eyes went shiny.

“Oh, come on,” Aimée said, already emotional again. “Don’t.”

“It is the size of a blueberry?”

“This week, yes.”

Arthur covered his face with one hand. “That is very small.”

“Yes.”

“That is offensively small.”

“I know.”

He dropped his hand. His smile was soft now. Wondering. “There is a blueberry Leclerc in you.”

Aimée laughed through another tear. “Please never say that again.”

“Little blueberry.”

“Arthur.”

“My tiny niece or nephew.”

Aimée’s heart tripped.

Niece or nephew.

Charles’ child.

Her child.

Their child.

Arthur’s expression gentled, like he knew exactly what he had done.

“See?” he said softly. “Already loved.”

Aimée looked at him, and for the first time since the test turned positive, the fear loosened enough for something warmer to bloom through it.

Hope.

Tiny. Blueberry-sized, maybe.

But there.

Arthur nudged her knee. “Eat the cucumber rolls before I do.”

She glanced at the sushi spread across the table.

The salmon still sat untouched in its plastic tray, damning evidence of her condition.

“You can have the salmon,” she said.

Arthur gasped. “This baby has already made you generous.”

“This baby has made raw fish dangerous.”

“Still. I accept.”

He reached for the salmon with dramatic reverence.

Aimée watched him eat, smiling despite herself.

After a moment, Arthur pointed at her with his chopsticks again. “For the record, this is the best secret I have ever kept.”

“You have kept it for eight minutes.”

“And I am already suffering.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I will. Because I am strong. And because one day, when your child asks who knew first, I will say, ‘Me. Because I loved your maman enough to know when she was lying about sushi.’”

Aimée’s eyes burned again.

Arthur’s face softened, the joke fading.

“And because,” he added quietly, “I have always known when you were scared.”

She reached for his hand.

He let her take it.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Aimée whispered, “I don’t want to be like them.”

Arthur’s fingers tightened around hers.

“You won’t be.”

“I want this baby to know they’re loved.”

“They will.”

“I want them to feel safe.”

“They will.”

“I want them to never wonder if they’re too much.”

Arthur’s eyes shone. “Then they won’t.”

Aimée breathed in shakily.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic below, and Arthur opening another soy sauce packet with exaggerated care before handing it to her.

“There,” he said. “No tears required.”

She took it from him and laughed.

It felt like a beginning.

Not the perfect announcement she had imagined. Not the neat, romantic moment with the tiny onesie and Charles’ face going soft in candlelight. That would come tomorrow. She would tell him. He would cry. Arthur would probably be proved right about the dehydration.

But this moment mattered too.

Sitting on the floor of her apartment with her childhood best friend, surrounded by takeout containers and spilled edamame, crying over soy sauce and letting herself be scared out loud.

Letting herself be loved through it.

Arthur leaned back against the sofa and picked up another piece of salmon.

“You know,” he said, mouth full, “Charles is going to be so annoying when he finds out.”

Aimée smiled down at her stomach.

For the first time, the smile did not tremble. “I know.”

“He will download pregnancy apps.”

“Probably.”

“He will read books.”

“Definitely.”

“He will call Lorenzo and ask questions.”

“Lorenzo’s baby hasn’t even been born yet.”

“Charles will still consider him an expert.”

Aimée laughed softly.

Arthur grinned. “And he will thank me.”

“For what?”

“For giving him you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her chest ached.

Arthur looked unbearably pleased with himself.

“And,” he added, “for giving him the opportunity to have the most beautiful baby in the world.”

Aimée raised an eyebrow. “You gave him that opportunity?”

“I created the conditions.”

“You are impossible.”

“I am a visionary.”

Aimée leaned her head back against the sofa and looked around the apartment she shared with Charles. At the photos, the blankets, the half-melted ceramic bowl, the life that had somehow become hers.

Her hand rested over her stomach.

Arthur sat beside her, smug and loyal and eating the sushi she could not touch.

***

Aimée had planned everything.

The tiny Ferrari onesie was folded inside a white box. The pregnancy test was wrapped beneath it in tissue paper, the expensive digital kind she had bought in a panic because maybe Charles Leclerc needed the word pregnant spelled out for him, if two pink lines were too subtle.

There was a card, too.

She had rewritten it three times.

The first version made her cry. The second sounded like she was announcing they needed more olive oil. The third still sat on the kitchen counter beneath a mug.

I think our someday is coming sooner than we thought.

Charles was supposed to come home from Maranello after lunch.

Aimée was supposed to have time.

Time to shower. Time to put on something comfortable but pretty. Time to hide the box somewhere accessible but not obvious, because Charles had the instincts of a golden retriever and the investigative restraint of a toddler.

Time to breathe.

Instead, at 8:17 in the morning, while Aimée stood in the kitchen wearing one of Charles’ old Ferrari shirts and staring into the refrigerator as if breakfast might assemble itself out of pity, the front door opened.

She froze.

There was the soft thud of a suitcase.

The scrape of keys being dropped into the bowl by the entrance.

The exciting scatter of Leo’s nails on the hardwood floor. 

Then Charles’ voice, low and tired and warm.

“Mon amour?”

Aimée’s heart tried to exit through her throat.

No.

No, no, no.

He was early.

The box was still hidden in the bedroom. The card was on the counter. She had not brushed her hair. She had not prepared herself for any of this.

Then Charles appeared in the doorway, exhausted and rumpled from travel, his hoodie creased, his hair flattened on one side.

The second he saw her, his whole face changed.

That still undid her.

Years later, it still undid her.

Charles looked at her like coming home was not about an apartment or a city.

Like it was her.

“Hi,” Aimée said, voice embarrassingly small.

Charles smiled, crossed the kitchen in three long strides, and pulled her into his arms.

Aimée went easily.

Of course she did.

Her body knew how to come home to him, even when her mind was spinning too fast to catch up.

“I missed you,” he murmured into her neck.

Aimée closed her eyes. “I missed you too.”

He held her a little tighter, then pulled back just enough to study her face.

“You look tired.”

Aimée almost laughed.

She looked tired because she had slept for approximately four hours, spent half the night thinking about blueberries thanks to Arthur, and woken up at six to reread a pregnancy app that cheerfully informed her nausea, exhaustion, and emotional volatility were all normal. 

“I didn’t sleep very well,” she said.

Charles’ brow furrowed. “Why? Are you sick?”

“No.”

Too fast.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Damn him.

Damn his love.

Damn the way being cherished came with being studied like telemetry.

“Not sick,” Aimée corrected. “Just restless.”

He did not look convinced. “You should have told me.”

“You were working.”

“You can still tell me.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushed her cheek. “Aimée.”

Her throat tightened.

This was it.

She could tell him now.

She could take his hand, lead him to the bedroom, pull out the box, and watch his face change in that beautiful, unguarded way she loved most.

Charles, I’m pregnant.

The words rose to the back of her tongue.

Then his phone rang.

Aimée flinched.

Charles closed his eyes, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“Ignore it,” he said.

“It could be important.”

“It is probably Andrea.”

“Charles.”

“Or Fred.”

“Charles.”

He groaned softly, kissed her forehead, and pulled out his phone.

The screen lit up.

Lorenzo.

Charles answered immediately.

“Lorenzo?”

Aimée could not hear what Lorenzo said.

She only saw Charles go completely still. Then his eyes widened. “Quoi?” he breathed.

For half a second, Aimée’s stomach dropped. 

Then Charles’ face broke open into stunned, breathless joy. “Oh my God.”

Aimée’s hand went to her chest.

Charles laughed. “She is here?”

Camilla. The baby. Charlotte and Lorenzo’s daughter.

Charles turned toward Aimée, eyes shining.

“She is here,” he mouthed.

Aimée softened all at once. “Oh,” she whispered.

Charles pushed one hand into his hair. “When? Last night? Why did you not call me?” A pause. “I would have answered.” Another pause. “I was not sleeping. I was—okay, maybe I was sleeping, but still.” His voice softened. “How is Charlotte?”

Aimée stepped closer without realizing it. Charles reached for her automatically, his free hand finding hers. It was so natural it hurt. She stared at their joined hands and felt the secret between them pulse.

How is Charlotte?

How will I be?

Would Charles call Lorenzo one day and say she is here about our baby?

The thought hit her so hard she gripped his hand.

Charles glanced at her, concern flickering through his joy.

She forced a smile. He squeezed back. “Can we come?” Charles asked. “Now? Yes, we are in Monaco. I just got home.”

His smile turned helpless. “Of course we want to come. She is our niece.”

Aimée pressed her lips together. Our niece. Their baby’s cousin.

It was so tender and ridiculous that her eyes burned.

Charles nodded along to whatever Lorenzo was saying.

“Yes. We will bring coffee. And pastries. No, I will not bring the giant bear. Aimée said it was too much.”

Aimée blinked.

He glanced at her, guilty.

“You bought the giant bear?” she whispered.

Charles covered the receiver. “It is not giant.”

“Charles.”

“Reasonable giant.”

“Charles.”

“It is for my niece.”

“She was born last night!”

“And she deserves a bear.”

Aimée stared at him.

Lorenzo said something sharp enough that Charles winced.

“Yes, fine. I will not bring the giant bear today.” He paused. “Can I bring the small bear?”

Aimée shut her eyes.

She loved him so much it was humiliating.

Apparently Lorenzo allowed the small bear, because Charles smiled triumphantly. “We will be there soon,” he said. His voice softened. “Congratulations. We are so happy for you.”

Aimée looked at him when he said it. At the softness in his face. The love. The awe. The way his eyes had gone damp because his brother had become a father.

She imagined that expression turned toward her.

Toward the white box in the bedroom. Toward the blueberry-sized secret beneath her heart. Her knees felt strange.

Charles ended the call and stared at his phone as if it had changed his life.

Then he looked at Aimée. “She was born last night.”

Aimée smiled. “I heard.”

“Camilla.”

“I know.”

“Camilla is here.”

“I know, chéri.”

He looked so dazed she almost laughed. Then he pulled her against him and spun her once in the kitchen.

Aimée squeaked. “Charles!”

“Our niece is here,” he said into her hair.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because our niece is here.”

He set her down but did not let go.

“We have to go,” he said. “Coffee. Pastries. The small bear. Flowers for Charlotte.”

“Good save.”

“And maybe something for Lorenzo.”

“Sleep?”

Charles nodded seriously. “Can we buy sleep?”

“Not at the bakery, no.”

He laughed and kissed her.

It was quick and joyful and bright, and Aimée nearly told him right there, with his hands on her waist and happiness glowing in his face.

But his phone buzzed again.

This time with a photo.

Charles opened it.

And stopped breathing.

Aimée knew before she looked.

She leaned against his side and saw Camilla wrapped in a white blanket, her tiny face scrunched, one fist pressed against her cheek.

“Oh,” Aimée whispered.

Charles stared at the photo like someone had handed him a religious artifact.

“She is perfect.”

“She is beautiful.”

“She looks like Lorenzo.”

“She is twelve hours old.”

“She does.”

Aimée laughed softly. “Maybe.”

Charles zoomed in with reverent concentration.

“Look at her hand.”

“I see it.”

“It is so small.”

“Yes.”

“How can a hand be so small?”

Aimée had no answer.

Not when her own hand had drifted, traitorous and instinctive, toward her stomach.

She caught herself before Charles noticed.

Or maybe he simply didn’t, because he was still staring at Camilla like the universe had narrowed down to a newborn fist.

Aimée watched him instead.

There was something dangerous about seeing Charles like this before she had told him.

Dangerous because it made the fear quieter.

Dangerous because it made hope louder.

Charles had always been tender with children. She had seen him crouch for little fans, hold friends’ babies with nervous hands, give his full attention to children who handed him drawings of red cars.

But this was different.

This was family.

This was Camilla.

And Charles looked like his heart had been placed outside his body and wrapped in a hospital blanket.

Aimée felt tears gather again.

Charles finally looked up.

His expression shifted immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not.”

His mouth twitched. “Mon amour.”

“It’s just so sweet.”

He softened and kissed her forehead. “She is very sweet.”

Aimée hid her face in his chest for one second longer than necessary.

Tell him. Tell him now.

But then Charles was already moving, full of purpose.

“Okay,” he said, clapping once. “We need to be efficient.”

Aimée blinked. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You have gone into logistics mode.”

“I have not.”

“You clapped.”

“I am excited.”

“You clapped like Fred before a strategy briefing.”

Charles ignored that. “I need to shower. You look beautiful.”

“I am wearing your shirt and possibly yesterday’s mascara.”

“Beautiful,” he said automatically. “Then pastries. Coffee. Flowers. Small bear. Maybe diapers.”

Aimée stared at him. “Diapers?”

“Babies need diapers.”

“Lorenzo and Charlotte know that.”

“But maybe they need more.”

“They had a baby last night, Charles. They have diapers.”

“Fine. No diapers.” He said it like a sacrifice.

Aimée bit back a laugh.

“We should ask if they need anything,” she said.

Charles pointed at her. “Smart. This is why I married you.”

“You married me because Arthur trapped us on a balcony.”

Charles’ face softened into fond annoyance. “Arthur claims many things.”

“Arthur engineered our marriage and will never let us forget it.”

“He introduced us.”

“He abandoned us together.”

“He was being Arthur.”

“He locked the balcony door.”

“For seven minutes.”

Aimée raised an eyebrow.

Charles grinned. “It worked.”

It did.

That was the annoying part.

It had worked so well that years later she was standing barefoot in their kitchen, pregnant with Charles’ baby, while he prepared to meet his newborn niece and unknowingly demonstrate exactly the kind of father he would be.

Her throat tightened again.

Charles noticed. Of course he did. He came back to her at once, all the frantic energy softening.

“Aimée,” he said carefully. “Are you sure you are okay?”

She stared at him.

Tired. Happy. Concerned. So impossibly hers.

She could tell him now. But something stopped her.

Maybe fear.

Maybe the way his joy was already so big that adding to it felt like lighting a match in a room full of fireworks.

Maybe selfishness.

She wanted to see him with Camilla first.

One last moment of knowing before he knew.

One last chance to watch Charles become undone by a baby and think, soon.

Soon, that will be ours.

So she smiled. “I’m okay.”

Charles searched her face. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

It was not exactly a lie.

She was scared. Overwhelmed. Emotional enough to cry over soy sauce packets and newborn photos and Charles being Charles.

But she was okay. Or she would be.

Charles kissed her gently.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I will shower very fast.”

“No, you will shower properly. You smell like airport.”

His laugh followed him down the hall.

Aimée stood alone in the kitchen after he disappeared.

The card still sat beneath the mug. She pulled it free. I think our someday is coming sooner than we thought. Even her handwriting looked nervous.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Not now. Later.

After Camilla. After Charles had met his niece.

Maybe that was better. Maybe that was perfect.

The bathroom door opened ten minutes later.

Charles emerged with damp hair, clean jeans, and the kind of nervous excitement that made him look younger. He had changed into the soft cream jumper Aimée loved and was holding two stuffed bears.

One was small. One was not.

Aimée stared at him. “No.”

Charles looked down at the bears. “What?”

“You are not bringing both.”

“But this one is the small bear.”

“And the other?”

He lifted the bigger one. “This one is also small compared to the giant bear.”

Aimée closed her eyes. “Charles.”

“She is my niece.”

“She is a newborn.”

He hesitated, then lowered the larger bear.

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“But I am bringing the small one.”

“The small one is allowed.”

Charles kissed her cheek as he passed. “You are very generous.”

“I am very patient.”

“That too.”

Aimée changed quickly while Charles searched for socks with unnecessary intensity.

The white box sat hidden in the drawer.

She looked at it when Charles bent to tie his shoes.

Just for a second.

Then she closed the drawer with her hip before he could turn around.

Charles glanced up. “What was that?”

“What?”

“The drawer.”

“I closed it.”

“Suspiciously.”

“You are suspiciously nosy.”

He grinned. “Only with you.”

Her heart flipped.

When they finally left the apartment, Charles had the small bear tucked under one arm, his phone in his hand, and the bright, helpless energy of a man on his way to fall completely in love with a baby.

Aimée locked the door behind them.

Inside, the box waited. Inside, the card waited. Inside, their life remained suspended for a few more hours.

Charles turned back from the elevator. “Aimée?”

She looked at him.

He smiled. “Come on,” he said. “We are going to meet Camilla.”

Aimée slipped her hand into his.

***

Arthur clocked it before Charles had even finished parallel parking.

Of course he did.

Aimée had spent the entire drive to Pascale’s house trying to behave like a normal person.

It was not going well.

Charles was driving with the small bear buckled into the back seat because Aimée had refused to hold it the whole way and Charles had claimed, very seriously, that “if we brake too hard, he could fall.” The bear had a soft pink ribbon tied around its neck, which Charles had redone three times before they left because the first bow was “not symmetrical enough for Camilla.”

Aimée had watched him fuss over it and nearly burst into tears again.

Because apparently that was who she was now.

A woman who cried over soy sauce packets, newborn photos, and her husband tying a ribbon around a stuffed bear for their niece.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Charles asked for the fourth time as they turned onto Pascale’s street.

Aimée smiled at him.

It felt only slightly deranged. “I’m fine.”

“You are very quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

Our baby is the size of a blueberry and your little brother knows before you do because I refused salmon nigiri and cried over soy sauce.

“Camilla,” Aimée said.

Charles softened instantly. “I know,” he said. “Me too.”

That made it worse. Everything made it worse.

Charles pulled up in front of Pascale’s building just as the front door opened. Pascale appeared first, glowing with the specific pride of a woman whose first grandchild had arrived and immediately rearranged the entire family’s orbit.

Arthur followed behind her carrying a suspiciously full tote bag.

Aimée narrowed her eyes.“What is in that bag?”

Charles leaned forward. “Probably food.”

“It is Arthur. It could be anything.”

Pascale reached the car first and leaned in to kiss Aimée’s cheek, then Charles’.

“Bonjour, mes amours. Oh, Charles, you look tired.”

“I am fine, Maman.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I am fine.”

Pascale gave him the look all mothers seemed to be born knowing how to use.

Charles wisely said nothing else.

Arthur slid into the back seat behind Aimée. The second he saw her face in the rearview mirror, his expression sharpened.

Aimée looked away.

Too late.

Arthur knew.

Arthur always knew.

Charles, oblivious because he was too busy listening to Pascale’s rapid-fire update about Lorenzo, Charlotte, the baby’s weight, the baby’s hair, the baby’s name, the baby’s general perfection, and the fact that Lorenzo had cried “very quietly but not quietly enough,” pulled back into traffic.

Arthur leaned forward between the seats.

“So,” he said.

Aimée closed her eyes.

No.

Not now.

Not in the car.

Charles glanced at him in the mirror. “What?”

Arthur looked at Charles.

Then Aimée.

Then Charles again.

His eyes widened.

Just a fraction.

Aimée saw the exact second he realized.

Charles did not know.

Arthur mouthed, very clearly, You didn’t tell him?

Aimée mouthed back, Shut up.

Arthur stared at her as though she had betrayed not only him but the entire concept of dramatic timing.

Pascale, still facing forward, continued happily, “Charlotte says Camilla has Lorenzo’s nose, but I think it is much too early to say. Babies change so quickly. Charles, do you remember Arthur as a newborn? He looked like a very angry little potato.”

Arthur leaned back, offended. “Maman.”

“It is true.”

“I was beautiful!”

“You were purple.”

Charles laughed, and Aimée tried to laugh with him, but Arthur was still staring at her reflection like a scandalized owl.

He leaned forward again. “Why haven’t you told him?” he whispered.

Aimée’s head snapped toward him.

Charles glanced over. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aimée said quickly.

Pascale turned slightly. “What did you say, Arthur?”

Arthur froze.

Aimée held her breath.

Then Arthur smiled. It was the worst smile Aimée had ever seen. “I asked,” he said slowly, “why Aimée hasn’t told Charles…”

Aimée’s entire soul left her body.

“…that his parking outside Maman’s was terrible.”

Charles gasped. “It was not terrible.”

Aimée exhaled so hard she almost got light-headed.

Pascale looked out the window, considering. “It was a little far from the curb.”

“Maman.”

“A little.”

“There was traffic.”

“There is always traffic.”

Arthur sat back, deeply pleased with himself.

Aimée turned just enough to glare at him.

He raised both eyebrows.

When? she mouthed.

Arthur leaned forward again, ignoring Charles’ ongoing defense of his parking.

“No, seriously,” Arthur whispered. “Why?”

Aimée stared at him.

“When?” she hissed.

Arthur blinked. “When?”

“Yes. When?”

“This morning!”

“He came home early!”

“So?”

“So I had not even brushed my hair!”

Arthur looked unimpressed. “You think Charles cares if you brush your hair?”

“That is not the point.”

“It feels like a weak point.”

“He walked in, hugged me, and then Lorenzo called thirty seconds later.”

Arthur paused.

His eyes flicked toward Charles, who was now explaining to Pascale that he had not brought the giant bear because Aimée had “unfairly censored” him.

Arthur looked back at Aimée.

“Okay,” he conceded. “That is a little difficult.”

“A little?”

“You could have told him between the hug and the phone call.”

“It was thirty seconds.”

“You talk fast when you panic.”

Aimée stared at him.

Arthur grinned.

She wanted to hit him with the tiny bear.

Unfortunately, the tiny bear was in the back seat between him and Pascale, which meant he currently had custody of the weapon.

Arthur picked it up, looked at it, then at Aimée.

His face softened.

That was worse, somehow.

“You have to tell him soon,” he whispered.

Aimée looked forward again.

Charles had one hand on the wheel, his profile softened by the morning light, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. He was listening to Pascale explain that Lorenzo had told everyone not to overwhelm Charlotte, which Pascale considered very reasonable but also “a little unfair because I am the grandmother.”

Aimée’s heart twisted.

“I know,” she whispered.

Arthur’s voice gentled. “Aimée.”

“I know.”

“He’s going to be happy.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why are you waiting?”

She did not answer immediately.

Because there were too many answers.

Because she had imagined it one way and the morning had taken that from her.

Because every time she looked at Charles, the words turned too big to fit in her mouth.

Because he was already so happy about Camilla that she felt like she was standing at the edge of a second wave of joy and did not know how to step into it without drowning.

Because the second she told him, everything would become real.

Because she was still scared.

Arthur watched her face and, to his credit, stopped joking.

“Oh,” he murmured.

Aimée looked down at her hands.

Arthur leaned forward, voice soft enough this time that only she could hear.

“You are allowed to be scared.”

Her throat closed.

“But you do not have to do the scared part alone,” he said.

Aimée blinked quickly.

Damn him.

Damn Arthur Leclerc and his stupid face and his stupid ability to say exactly what she needed when she least expected it.

Pascale laughed at something Charles said.

The sound was warm.

Familiar.

A mother’s laugh.

Aimée in the reflection of Pascale in the window and thought, not for the first time, how strange it was that the person who had shown her the most consistent maternal tenderness in her life was not her own mother at all.

Pascale had never tried to replace anyone.

She had simply made space.

An extra plate at dinner. A kiss on both cheeks. A cardigan over Aimée’s shoulders when she fell asleep after family lunch. A firm voice when Aimée’s mother had once called Charles’ phone because Aimée had blocked her number. She is part of this family now, Pascale had said, voice cool in a way Aimée had never heard before. And you will not speak to her like that again.

Aimée had cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes afterward.

Charles had sat on the floor outside the door until she let him in.

Arthur had sent her a meme of a raccoon holding a knife.

Everyone had helped in their own way.

Now Pascale was going to be a grandmother again. She did not know that either.

Aimée pressed a hand to her stomach before she could stop herself.

Arthur saw. His face went very soft.

Then Charles glanced over.

Aimée dropped her hand too quickly.

Charles’ eyes flicked down. Then back to her face. “You okay?” he asked.

Arthur made a tiny strangled noise in the back seat.

Aimée wanted to evaporate. “I’m fine,” she said.

Charles frowned. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

“Are you hungry?”

Pascale turned immediately. “You did not eat breakfast?”

Aimée hesitated.

Arthur’s eyes widened behind her. Danger.

“I had toast,” Aimée said.

Arthur coughed.

Charles looked at him in the mirror. “Are you okay?”

Arthur thumped his chest once. “Yes. Emotional. My niece was born.”

Pascale smiled fondly. “You are very sweet, Arthur.”

Aimée almost laughed.

Arthur looked deeply wounded by the accuracy of the lie.

Charles reached across the console and took Aimée’s hand.

“I packed crackers in your bag,” he said quietly.

Aimée turned to him. “What?”

“You said you felt restless. You also looked pale. Sometimes when you forget to eat, you feel worse.” He kept his eyes on the road, as if he had not just casually rearranged her insides. “So I put crackers in your bag before we left.”

Aimée stared at him.

Arthur stared at her.

Pascale made a soft sound. “Ah, Charles.”

Charles looked embarrassed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Pascale said, smiling out the window. “You are sweet.”

“I am practical.”

Arthur muttered from the back seat, “You are doomed.”

Charles glanced in the mirror. “What?”

“I said you are groomed.”

A pause.

Aimée slowly turned around.

Arthur looked panicked.

Charles blinked. “Groomed?”

“For unclehood,” Arthur said quickly. “Prepared. Emotionally groomed.”

“That is not how that word works,” Aimée said.

“I know,” Arthur said. “I regret it.”

Pascale shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder how you are all adults.”

Charles laughed, and the sound filled the car.

Aimée held his hand tighter.

He noticed, of course.

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles without thinking.

Arthur looked like he was about to combust from the effort of keeping the secret.

They stopped at the bakery because Charles insisted they could not arrive empty-handed. Pascale came inside with him to choose pastries, leaving Aimée and Arthur alone beside the car.

The second the bakery door closed, Arthur rounded on her.

“You did not tell him?!”

“We have established this.”

Arthur pointed through the window, where Charles was earnestly discussing pastries while Pascale selected enough food to feed a small principality.

“That man packed crackers in your bag because you looked pale!”

“I know.”

“He buckled a teddy bear into the back seat!”

“I know.”

“He is one newborn photo away from building a nursery for someone else’s baby!”

Aimée groaned and covered her face. “I know.”

Arthur softened.

“Oh, Aimée.”

She dropped her hands.

“I was going to,” she said. “I had the box ready, and then he came home early, and then Lorenzo called, and now we’re going to meet Camilla, and I don’t want to make this about us.”

Arthur blinked. Then his expression went gently incredulous. “You think telling your husband you are pregnant makes Camilla’s birth about you?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She looked toward the bakery window, where Charles was now holding up two pastry boxes for Pascale’s approval. “It’s Lorenzo and Charlotte’s day.”

“It can still be their day.”

“I know.”

“And Charles can still know.”

“I know.”

Arthur leaned closer. “This is not stealing anything from anyone.”

Aimée swallowed.

Arthur’s eyes searched hers.

“Is this about Lorenzo and Charlotte,” he asked softly, “or is this about you being scared to let it be real?”

Aimée hated him a little. Only because he was right.

“When I walked you down the aisle,” Arthur said quietly, “Charles looked like he was going to pass out.”

Despite herself, Aimée smiled faintly. “He did not.”

“He did. He was pale.”

“He cries easily.”

“He was not crying yet. That came later.”

Aimée’s smile grew.

Arthur nudged her shoulder. “I was very proud of myself.”

“You were proud of yourself at my wedding?”

“Obviously. I made that happen.”

“You locked us on a balcony.”

“A crucial decision.”

She laughed softly. Arthur did not.

“I was proud,” he said, quieter now, “because I knew he would look after you. Not because you needed looking after like you were weak. Because you had spent your whole life around people who made love feel unsafe, and I wanted you to have someone who made it easy.”

Aimée’s eyes burned.

“And Charles did,” Arthur said. “He does.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“So let him.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Let him be happy with you,” Arthur said. “Let him be scared with you. Let him be ridiculous with you. You do not have to protect him from the size of his own feelings.”

A laugh escaped her, half-sob. “His feelings are very big.”

“They are enormous. Terrible, really.”

“He is going to cry.”

“So much.”

“He might panic.”

“Definitely.”

“He might call Lorenzo immediately.”

“Not if you take his phone.”

Aimée laughed again and wiped under one eye.

Arthur smiled, relieved.

“Tell him when you’re ready,” he said. “But do not wait because you think this is too much. Charles has been too much since birth. He can handle joy.”

Aimée looked through the bakery window.

Charles had acquired not only pastries but a small bouquet of flowers, which he held with solemn responsibility. He caught her watching. His face lit. He lifted the bouquet slightly, asking for approval. Aimée smiled and nodded. Charles smiled back.

Arthur sighed beside her. “Disgusting.”

“You set us up.”

“And I suffer for it every day.”

The bakery door opened. Pascale stepped out first with a pastry box, Charles behind her carrying flowers, another box, and his barely contained excitement.

“I got Charlotte the almond croissants she likes,” Charles announced.

Pascale gave Aimée a fond look. “He also bought three kinds of bread because he said Lorenzo may forget to eat.”

Arthur looked at Aimée.

Aimée looked at Arthur.

Charles noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” they said together.

They got back into the car, pastries balanced on Aimée’s lap because Charles did not trust Arthur not to eat them. Arthur complained for exactly two minutes before Pascale handed him a spare pain au chocolat from the bag she had secretly bought for him.

“Maman,” Charles said, betrayed.

“He is hungry!”

“He is always hungry.”

Arthur bit into the pastry smugly. “And yet I am loved.”

Aimée leaned her head back against the seat, listening to them bicker softly.

It should have been overwhelming.

Maybe it was.

But beneath the nerves, something else had begun to settle.

Arthur was right.

Charles could handle joy.

Charles could handle fear too.

He had handled hers before. Carefully. Patiently. With hands that never grabbed, only offered.

She would tell him.

Soon.

Maybe not while Camilla was being passed from arm to arm. Maybe not while Pascale was glowing with grandmotherhood or Arthur was vibrating with the effort not to blurt it out himself.

But soon.

Today.

She could feel the decision forming, small and steady.

Charles parked outside Lorenzo and Charlotte’s building with far more care than necessary.

Arthur leaned forward. “Better parking this time.”

Charles twisted around. “You want to walk home?”

Pascale sighed. “Boys.”

Aimée laughed.

Charles turned to her, smile softening instantly.

“There,” he said. “That’s better.”

“What?”

“You laughed.”

Her heart squeezed.

He noticed everything.

Arthur’s gaze met hers in the rearview mirror.

His expression said, very clearly, Tell him.

Aimée gave him a tiny nod.

Arthur’s face softened.

Then he ruined it by whispering, “Blueberry.”

Aimée’s eyes widened.

Charles frowned. “What?”

Arthur froze. Pascale paused with her hand on the door. Arthur looked at Charles.

Then Pascale.

Then Aimée.

“I said we should have bought blueberries.”

Charles stared at him. “For Lorenzo?”

Arthur nodded too quickly. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Antioxidants.”

A silence fell over the car.

Pascale turned slowly to look at her youngest son.

“Arthur,” she said with deep maternal fatigue, “what is wrong with you?”

“So many things,” Aimée muttered.

Charles laughed.

They climbed out, gathering pastries, flowers, the small bear, and the messy excitement that trailed after every Leclerc family gathering.

As they approached Lorenzo’s building, Charles reached for Aimée’s hand.

She took it.

Arthur walked just behind them, close enough that when Charles leaned down to kiss Aimée’s temple, Arthur made a quiet gagging noise.

Charles, without turning, said, “I heard that.”

“Good,” Arthur replied.

Pascale shushed them both.

Aimée smiled down at the pavement.

Her hand tightened around Charles’.

He squeezed back immediately.

Still unaware.

Still hers.

Still carrying flowers for his brother’s wife and a tiny bear for his newborn niece.

Still the man who would, very soon, know that their whole world had shifted.

Arthur caught her eye one more time as they reached the entrance.

This time, he only smiled. Proud. Fond. A little smug, because of course he was.

Aimée rolled her eyes.

But as Charles rang Lorenzo’s bell, as Pascale clasped her hands beneath her chin, and as Arthur bounced once on his heels like he was twelve years old again, Aimée let her free hand drift briefly to her stomach.

When?

Soon. Very soon.

***

It happened in the doorway of Lorenzo and Charlotte’s apartment, somewhere between Pascale making a soft, broken sound beside him and Lorenzo appearing at the end of the hallway with a newborn tucked carefully against his chest.

Charles stopped breathing.

Completely.

For one suspended second, the world narrowed down to his older brother standing barefoot in the corridor, looking exhausted and unshaven and impossibly happy, one hand curved protectively around the smallest bundle Charles had ever seen.

“Oh,” Pascale whispered.

Arthur went still behind him.

Aimée’s hand tightened around Charles’.

Charles could not move.

He had known Camilla had been born. He had seen the photo. He had zoomed in on her tiny fist in the car until Aimée had laughed at him and told him he was going to blur the pixels with affection.

But the photo had not prepared him for this.

Nothing could have prepared him for Lorenzo, his calm, steady, sensible older brother, looking down at his daughter like the whole universe had finally explained itself.

“Come in quietly,” Lorenzo said, voice low. “Charlotte is on the sofa. Camilla just settled.”

Pascale crossed the threshold first.

Of course she did.

Charles had never seen his mother move with such careful urgency before. Usually Pascale was warmth in motion, kisses and hands on cheeks and a voice that filled rooms easily. Now she seemed to make herself smaller, softer, as if any sudden movement might disturb the fragile newness in Lorenzo’s arms.

“My love,” she whispered.

Lorenzo bent so she could kiss his cheek.

Pascale touched his face afterward, her eyes shining. “You are a papa.”

Lorenzo’s mouth trembled.

Only slightly.

But Charles saw it.

Arthur saw it too, judging by the way he suddenly looked down at his shoes.

“Yes,” Lorenzo said, voice rough. “I am.”

Pascale made another quiet sound, then looked at the baby.

Charles felt Aimée shift beside him.

He glanced at her for the first time since the door had opened.

She was watching Lorenzo and Camilla with an expression he did not know how to read.

Soft, yes. Tender. But also tight around the edges. Her eyes were bright, her lips pressed together, and her free hand hovered oddly near her stomach before she dropped it to her side.

Charles frowned.

Before he could ask, Arthur stepped too close behind them and whispered, “Move, Charles. Some of us would also like to enter the apartment before Camilla starts university.”

Charles blinked.

Then remembered he was standing in the doorway like a statue.

“Right,” he murmured.

Aimée’s fingers slipped from his as they moved inside, and Charles immediately missed the contact.

That was ridiculous. She was half a step away. Still, he reached for her again once they were in the hall, and she let him take her hand.

Her palm felt cold. He squeezed it. She squeezed back, but she did not look at him.

That worried him. A little.

Not enough to distract him from Camilla, because apparently his brain had become entirely useless, but enough that part of him tucked the detail away.

Aimée was pale. Aimée had been quiet all morning. Aimée had not eaten much. Aimée had almost cried in the car when he showed her the photo.

Charles was going to ask her later.

Properly. After Camilla. After—

Lorenzo shifted the baby slightly. Camilla made a tiny noise. Charles forgot everything else. 

It was not even a cry.

Just a small, disgruntled sound from somewhere inside the blanket, a sound that should not have been powerful enough to rearrange a grown man’s internal organs and yet somehow did exactly that.

Charles looked down at her. Really looked.

Camilla was impossibly small. That was the first thing.

She was small in a way that made no sense. Her face was scrunched, her mouth slightly pursed, her eyelashes barely visible against her cheeks. She had a surprising amount of dark hair and one hand tucked beneath her chin, fingers curled like she had arrived in the world already prepared to make a point.

Charles felt his chest crack open.“Oh,” he said.

It came out badly. Too soft. Almost broken.

Arthur, mercifully, said nothing. Pascale had one hand over her mouth. Aimée stood beside Charles, silent and warm and trembling slightly.

Lorenzo smiled down at Camilla. “Your Uncle Charles,” he murmured. “He is dramatic, but we love him.”

Charles swallowed hard. “I am not dramatic.”

Arthur made a noise. Pascale gave him a warning look. Arthur pressed his lips together.

Camilla did not appear to care about Charles’ defence of his character. She shifted in Lorenzo’s arms, her face crumpling for half a second before smoothing again into sleep.

Charles almost put a hand over his heart.

He did not, because Arthur was there and would never let him live.

But he wanted to.

Charlotte was on the sofa in the living room, propped up against pillows with a blanket over her legs. She looked exhausted in a way Charles did not think he had ever seen before. Not tired like after a long day. Not sleepy. Exhausted deep in her bones. But when she saw them, her smile was luminous.

“Hi,” she whispered.

Pascale reached her first too, bending carefully to kiss her cheeks.

“My darling,” she said, voice thick. “You did so well.”

Charlotte laughed softly, already teary. “I cried a lot.”

“That is allowed.”

“Lorenzo cried too.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Charlotte.”

“You did.”

“I was very composed.”

Arthur snorted. “Sure.”

Lorenzo gave him one look.

Arthur raised both hands and took a very sensible step behind Aimée.

Charles barely heard them.

His attention had returned to Camilla, because Lorenzo had moved into the living room now and the light from the window fell across the baby’s face.

She was real. His niece was real.

For months, she had been Charlotte’s bump, ultrasound photos in the family group chat, Lorenzo pretending not to panic over assembling furniture, Pascale knitting tiny cardigans, Arthur making inappropriate jokes about becoming the fun uncle and being banned from buying anything with wheels.

Now she was here.

A person.

A tiny person who belonged to them.

To the family.

To Lorenzo.

Charles had expected to love her.

Obviously.

But he had not expected this strange, violent tenderness that rose in him so quickly he almost felt frightened by it.

He wanted to protect her. From everything.

From sharp corners. Bad weather. People who spoke too loudly. The terrifying softness of the world. Ferrari strategy calls. Arthur’s influence.

Especially Arthur’s influence.

Lorenzo settled into an armchair with Camilla still tucked against him, and Charlotte smiled at Charles from the sofa.

“Do you want to hold her?”

Charles froze. “What?”

Charlotte’s smile widened, tired and fond. “Do you want to hold her?”

He looked at Lorenzo.

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “She is your niece.”

“Yes,” Charles said quickly. “I know.”

“You look like you do not know.”

“I know.”

“He knows how nieces work,” Aimée said beside him, though her voice sounded slightly strained with amusement.

Charles glanced at her. She was smiling now.

It steadied him. A little.

“I can hold her?” he asked.

Arthur made a choked noise. “No, Charles, they invited you here so you could look at her from a respectful distance like a museum exhibit.”

“Arthur,” Pascale scolded.

“What? He asked.”

Charles ignored him. Or tried to.

Lorenzo stood slowly, careful with the baby, and came toward him.

The closer Camilla got, the more Charles felt as though his body was forgetting its basic instructions.

Arms. He had arms. He knew how arms worked.

He had driven Formula One cars at impossible speeds through Monaco, through Spa, through Monza. He had held trophies, champagne bottles, helmets, cats, Aimée when she had cried after receiving yet another awful message from her mother years ago. He had held plenty of things.

Holding a newborn should not have felt like being handed a bomb made of glass and hope.

“Support her head,” Lorenzo said.

“I know.”

“You do not look like you know.”

“Your face looks like you have just been asked to defuse a missile,” Arthur said.

Charles glared at him.

Then Lorenzo placed Camilla in his arms.

And Charles forgot how to glare.

The weight of her was nothing. That was the second thing.

She weighed almost nothing, and yet the second she settled against his chest, Charles felt heavier. Anchored. As if some hidden hook had caught beneath his ribs and attached itself to this tiny sleeping girl forever.

His hand curved carefully behind her head. Her cheek rested against his jumper. Her mouth moved once, a small searching motion that made something humiliating happen to his eyes.

He blinked quickly.

Arthur whispered, “Oh, he’s gone.”

Charles did not even argue. Because he was. He was absolutely gone.

“Bonjour, Camilla,” he whispered. His voice shook.

Aimée made a tiny sound beside him.

He looked down at his niece and forgot the room. “She is so small,” he said.

Lorenzo sat back down, looking deeply amused. “Yes.”

“No, but really.”

“That is how babies are.”

Charles shook his head slightly. “This small?”

Charlotte laughed softly. “She was very committed to making an entrance.”

“She has your hair,” Charles said.

Lorenzo smiled. “Poor thing.”

“And your nose.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because she does.”

“She has Charlotte’s mouth, I think.” Aimée said. Charles looked at her again.

She had come closer without him noticing, standing at his side with both hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were fixed on Camilla, and there was such naked tenderness on her face that Charles felt his breath catch.

Aimée had always been beautiful to him.

Not only in the obvious ways, though certainly in those too. 

He loved the shape of her mouth, the exact shade of her hair in late afternoon light, the little line between her brows when she concentrated. But it was more than that. Aimée was beautiful when she forgot to be guarded. When she loved something openly.

She was looking at Camilla like that now. Open. Almost aching.

Charles wanted to reach for her, but both his hands were occupied with the smallest person he had ever loved.

So he said her name instead. “Aimée.”

She looked at him.Her eyes were wet. 

“Look at her,” he whispered, because he had no better words.

Aimée smiled. “I am looking.”

“She is perfect.”

“She is.”

Camilla made another tiny noise, and Charles immediately looked down in panic. “What was that?”

Charlotte smiled. “A baby noise.”

“Is she uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“Is her head okay?”

Lorenzo closed his eyes briefly. “Charles.”

“What?”

“You have been holding her for forty seconds.”

“A lot can happen in forty seconds.”

Arthur nodded solemnly. “Entire Ferrari strategies have collapsed in less.”

Pascale made a strangled sound. “Arthur.”

Charles looked at him. “Not now.”

“Sorry.” Arthur did not look sorry.

Aimée looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

That helped.

Charles adjusted his hold minutely, careful not to wake Camilla. She let out a soft sigh and settled deeper against him.

The sound destroyed him.

Utterly.

He looked down at her and felt tears slide warm onto his cheeks before he had a chance to stop them. 

No one teased him. That was how he knew it was bad.

Pascale came closer and touched his shoulder. “Charles,” she whispered. He shook his head, embarrassed and not embarrassed at all. “She is just…” He could not finish.

“I know,” Pascale said. Her own voice was wet.

Charlotte smiled from the sofa, crying too now.

Lorenzo looked away toward the window, which meant he was also dangerously close.

Arthur stared very hard at the pastries.

Aimée stood beside Charles, quiet as a held breath.

Charles looked at her again.

Something shifted.

He did not know what, exactly.

Only that holding Camilla while Aimée stood beside him felt like looking through a door he had not realised was open. A future flickered there.

Aimée in this apartment, holding a baby.

Aimée in their kitchen, barefoot and laughing while he tried to assemble a high chair with the kind of focus he usually reserved for qualifying laps.

A nursery in their home.

Tiny socks.

A pram by the door.

A baby with Aimée’s eyes.

Or his hair.

The thought did not scare him.

That startled him most of all.

He had always wanted children someday. Someday had been a soft word, a warm possibility at the edge of the life he and Aimée were building. They had talked about it in gentle, half-serious ways. Late at night. On lazy mornings. During walks when they passed young families in Monaco and Aimée’s fingers tightened in his.

Someday.

But Camilla was in his arms now. Warm and breathing and impossibly real. And someday suddenly felt much closer.

Too close to ignore.

Charles looked at Aimée. Really looked. Her face changed the second their eyes met.

Something vulnerable flickered across it. Fear, maybe. Or anticipation. Or something he could not yet name.

His heart began to beat harder. “Aimée,” he said softly.

She swallowed. “Yes?”

He should not say it here.

He knew he should not say it here. Lorenzo and Charlotte had just had a baby. Pascale was beside him. Arthur was in the room. The pastries were still on the table. The whole apartment smelled faintly of coffee, baby lotion, and the kind of sleep deprivation that probably made people say things they should save for private.

But Charles had never been particularly good at keeping his feelings inside when they grew too large.

And this feeling was enormous. 

He looked down at Camilla again. Then back at his wife.

His voice came out low, almost shy. “We should have a baby.”

The room went silent. Completely silent.

Even Arthur stopped breathing.

Charles noticed that. Slowly.

Because at first all he saw was Aimée.

Aimée, whose eyes widened. Aimée, whose lips parted. Aimée, whose face went pale and pink at the same time in a way that made his stomach drop.

Not because she looked unhappy. Because she looked caught.

Charles frowned. “Aimée?”

Arthur made a very small sound behind him. A warning, maybe.

Charles turned his head slightly.

Arthur’s face was a disaster. His eyes were wide. His mouth pressed shut. He looked like someone had physically forced him to swallow a secret too large for his body.

Charles’ frown deepened. “What?”

Arthur shook his head too quickly. “Nothing.”

Lorenzo looked between Arthur and Aimée. Charlotte sat up a little. Pascale’s eyes moved to Aimée.

Aimée did not move.

Charles looked back at her. His heartbeat changed. “Aimée,” he said again.

Her hand had gone to her stomach. Just a small, instinctive movement. The kind someone made before remembering they should not.

Charles saw it. He saw Arthur see him see it. He saw Aimée realize he had seen.

The room fell away.

Something bright and impossible opened in his chest.

No. Surely not. Surely—

“Aimée?” he whispered.

Her eyes filled with tears.

Charles could not breathe.

Camilla shifted in his arms, and Lorenzo immediately stood, moving toward him with sudden, gentle urgency. “Give her to me,” Lorenzo said quietly.

Charles barely understood him.

His hands moved on instinct as he passed Camilla back to her father.

The second she was safely in Lorenzo’s arms, Charles turned fully toward Aimée.

She looked terrified.

Her eyes were wet, her fingers curled at the front of her cardigan, and her whole body looked like it was braced for impact.

Charles knew that look.

He hated that he knew that look.

He had seen it after calls from her mother. After messages from her parents who thought “family” was a word they could use to demand access. After her father had once sent a letter to their home, unopened and unwanted, and Aimée had sat on the bathroom floor for an hour with her knees pulled to her chest.

He had seen Aimée afraid of good things because bad people had taught her that good things came with conditions.

His own excitement, huge and rising, forced itself to stillness.

He crossed the small space between them slowly. Carefully. “Aimée,” he said, softer now. “Mon amour.”

Arthur took one step forward. Then stopped.

Charles noticed it from the corner of his eye.

Arthur knew. Arthur knew something. Arthur had known before him.

That realization should have done something. Maybe later it would. Maybe later Charles would look at his little brother and demand explanations and accuse him of betrayal and possibly threaten to remove him from every future godfather consideration out of principle.

But not now.

Now there was only Aimée.

Aimée blinked, and two tears fell. “I was going to tell you,” she said.

The world stopped. Charles stared at her. “What?”

Her mouth trembled. “I was going to tell you this morning,” she said. “Before Lorenzo called. I had a box and everything. I was going to do it properly.”

Charles heard Pascale inhale sharply behind him. Charlotte whispered something.

Arthur was utterly silent.

Charles did not turn around. He could not. His entire body had become one question.

Aimée drew in a shaky breath. “I’m pregnant.”

Charles did not move.

He had imagined, vaguely, abstractly, some future version of this moment.

Someday, Aimée would tell him.

Someday, he would find a test on a counter, or a tiny pair of shoes in a box, or maybe she would simply take his hand and place it over her stomach with that soft, nervous smile of hers. Someday, he would laugh and cry and kiss her and probably say something foolish because all of his biggest feelings came out clumsily at first.

He had imagined happiness.

He had not imagined silence.

He had not imagined the way his entire life would seem to split cleanly into before and after with two words.

I’m pregnant.

Charles tried to speak. Nothing came out.

Aimée’s face crumpled. “Oh,” she whispered. “Charles?”

That broke him. He moved.

One second he was standing in front of her; the next he had both hands on her face, holding her as carefully as he had held Camilla. “You are pregnant?” he whispered.

Aimée nodded. Charles made a sound.

(Arthur later would claim it was a sob. Charles would deny this. It was absolutely a sob.)

His forehead dropped to hers. “You are pregnant?”

“Yes,” Aimée whispered, crying properly now. “Almost eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks.”

“I found out three days ago.”

“Three days.”

“I wanted to tell you in person. You were in Maranello, and then you came home early, and then Lorenzo called, and then Arthur was being Arthur in the car, and I couldn’t—”

Charles pulled back just enough to look at her.

“Arthur knew?”

Arthur made a strangled noise. “In my defense—”

“No,” Charles said immediately, without looking at him.

Arthur shut up.

Aimée let out a wet, startled laugh.

Charles looked back at her and forgot Arthur existed again. “How did Arthur know?”

Aimée’s cheeks flushed. “Salmon nigiri.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Arthur groaned behind him. “Oh, God, we are doing this now?”

Aimée sniffed. “We ordered takeout. I didn’t eat the salmon. Arthur noticed.”

Charles turned very slowly toward his brother.

Arthur lifted both hands. “She always eats the salmon.”

Charles stared at him. 

Arthur looked back, entirely shameless now that the secret was out. “She does.”

Aimée covered her face with both hands. “And then I cried because I couldn’t open a soy sauce packet.”

Charles’ head snapped back to her. “You cried over soy sauce?”

“I was overwhelmed.”

“You should have called me.”

“You were working.”

“I do not care. I would have answered.”

“I know.”

“I would have come home.”

“That is exactly why I didn’t call.”

Charles stared at her.

She lowered her hands, eyes red and beautiful and full of fear. “I didn’t want to pull you away before I knew how to say it,” she whispered.

Charles’ chest hurt.

Not because she had waited.

Not even because Arthur had known first, though that would definitely become a family argument later.

Because she had been scared alone.

Because she had sat in their apartment with a secret the size of the universe inside her and thought she had to manage the first wave of it carefully, quietly, without disturbing him.

He cupped her face again.

“You never have to know how to say things perfectly to me,” he said. “You can just say them.”

Her lips trembled. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“You are my wife.”

“I know.”

“And you are having our baby.”

The words left his mouth and struck him in the chest.

Our baby.

His breath broke.

Aimée saw it happen.

Her expression changed. Fear loosened, just a little, making room for something else.

Charles dropped to his knees before he knew he meant to.

Aimée gasped. “Charles.”

Behind him, Arthur whispered, “Oh, he’s kneeling. Historic.”

Lorenzo muttered, “Arthur, for once in your life, shut up.”

“I’m emotional.”

Charles ignored them.

He placed his hands carefully at Aimée’s waist, then hesitated.

“Can I?” he asked.

Aimée’s face folded with tenderness.

She nodded.

Charles laid one hand over her stomach. There was nothing to feel.

He knew that, logically. No bump. No movement. No sign of anything to the outside world.

But his hand shook anyway.

“You are in there?” he whispered.

Aimée laughed through her tears. “The baby can’t hear you yet.”

“I don’t care.”

Pascale made a sound behind them that was definitely crying.

Charles kept his eyes on Aimée’s stomach. “Bonjour,” he whispered. “It is your papa.”

Aimée’s hand flew to her mouth.

Arthur turned away abruptly.

Lorenzo looked at the ceiling.

Charlotte openly cried.

Charles did not care about any of them.

“It is very early,” Aimée said, voice trembling. “I know it’s early, and I know we talked about maybe trying but not now, not exactly now, and I didn’t know if you would feel—”

“Happy,” Charles said immediately, looking up at her. “I feel happy.” She stared down at him. “I feel so happy I do not know how to be normal,” he said.

Arthur muttered, “That ship sailed years ago.”

Pascale slapped his arm.

“Ow.”

Charles still did not look away from Aimée.

“I am scared too,” he admitted. “Because of course I am scared. This is… this is everything. But Aimée, I am so happy.”

Her face crumpled fully then.

Charles stood and pulled her into him. She folded against his chest, shaking with the force of it.

He held her as tightly as he dared, then immediately loosened his grip because— “Am I holding you too hard?”

Aimée laughed into his jumper. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“The baby—”

“The baby is the size of a blueberry, Charles.”

Charles froze.

Arthur made a soft, strangled laugh.

Charles pulled back slowly. “A blueberry?”

Aimée nodded, wiping under her eyes. “Approximately.”

Charles stared at her stomach. Then at her. Then back at her stomach.

“A blueberry.”

“Yes.”

“Our baby is a blueberry.”

“Currently.”

He looked over his shoulder at Arthur.

Arthur was grinning now, eyes bright.

“I told her that was an excellent nickname.”

“You do not get to nickname my baby before me.”

“I knew first.”

The room went still.

Arthur’s grin faltered. Charles narrowed his eyes. Aimée, despite everything, let out a tiny laugh.

Arthur pointed at her. “She said it first.”

Charles took one step toward him.

Arthur immediately backed up behind Pascale.

“Let us remember,” Arthur said quickly, “that I have been supportive and emotionally mature.”

“You have been unbearable.”

“I have kept the secret for almost twelve hours.”

“That is not impressive.”

“For me, it is heroic.”

Pascale touched Charles’ arm before he could reply.

Her eyes were full of tears. “Charles,” she whispered.

He turned.

For the first time since Aimée said the words, he remembered his mother was there.

His mother, who had just become a grandmother the night before.

His mother, who was now staring at Aimée with such wonder and tenderness that Charles’ throat tightened all over again.

“May I?” Pascale asked Aimée, holding out her hands.

Aimée nodded at once.

Pascale crossed the room and cupped Aimée’s face. “My darling girl,” she said, voice shaking. “Oh, my darling.”

Aimée broke again.

Charles stepped back only because Pascale was already pulling his wife into her arms.

He watched them and felt something inside him ache.

He knew Aimée’s family had not given her this. He knew there were still parts of her that flinched from love because she had once learned it could be withdrawn without warning. But Pascale held her like there had never been any question.

Like Aimée was hers too. “You will be wonderful,” Pascale whispered into Aimée’s hair. “You hear me? Wonderful.”

Aimée nodded against her shoulder.

Arthur looked down at the floor, blinking too much.

Lorenzo stood nearby with Camilla asleep in his arms, his own expression soft and unreadable.

Charlotte wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. “Well,” she said shakily. “Camilla has been alive for less than a day and she already has cousin news.”

Lorenzo looked down at his daughter. “Efficient,” he said.

Arthur brightened. “A Leclerc trait.”

Pascale laughed through tears.

Charles looked at Lorenzo then.His older brother met his eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Lorenzo smiled. “Congratulations, little brother.”

Charles nearly lost it again.

He stepped forward, and Lorenzo shifted Camilla carefully to one side so Charles could hug him.

It was awkward because of the baby.

It was perfect because of the baby.

Lorenzo’s arm tightened around him.

“You are going to be a good father,” Lorenzo said quietly, close to his ear.

Charles closed his eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Neither do I.”

“You have done it for one night.”

“Yes,” Lorenzo said dryly. “I am now an expert.”

Charles laughed, watery and ridiculous.

Camilla made a tiny noise between them. Both brothers froze.

Then stepped apart at once.

Charlotte laughed from the sofa. “She is fine.”

Charles looked down at Camilla.

His niece.

His niece, who had entered the world and somehow opened the door for another revelation entirely.

He touched one gentle finger to the edge of her blanket.

“Thank you,” he whispered to her.

Arthur frowned. “Are you thanking the baby?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

Charles looked at Aimée.

She stood beside Pascale, one hand over her stomach, her face still wet with tears but softer now. Less afraid. Not unafraid, because Charles knew fear did not vanish simply because joy arrived. But steadier.

Loved.

He would make sure she never doubted that again.

“For being here,” Charles said.

Arthur opened his mouth.

Then, for once, closed it.

Pascale moved back toward Camilla, and the room slowly remembered how to breathe.

Charlotte accepted the flowers. Pascale kissed Camilla’s head. Lorenzo finally took one of the coffees Charles had brought and looked like it might save his life. Arthur dramatically announced that he had known first and therefore deserved “honorary favorite uncle status,” which led to Lorenzo threatening to ban him from Camilla’s nursery before she had even seen it.

Charles barely followed any of it.

He sat beside Aimée on the smaller sofa, one arm around her shoulders, his other hand resting carefully over hers on her stomach.

He could not stop touching her.

Not possessively.

Not even consciously.

He just needed the contact. Needed some physical proof that this was real, that she was beside him, that beneath their joined hands was the beginning of someone who would change everything.

Aimée leaned into him.

“You are staring,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“At my stomach.”

“Yes.”

“There is nothing to see.”

“I disagree.”

Her mouth twitched. “Charles.”

“I can see everything.”

Her eyes softened.

“You are going to be impossible, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“I am going to download apps.”

“I know.”

“I am going to buy so many books.”

“I know.”

“I am going to call the doctor.”

“I already have a doctor.”

“I am going to call another doctor.”

“Charles.”

“For comparison.”

“No.”

He kissed her temple. “Fine. I will ask you before calling doctors.”

“Thank you.”

“And I will build the nursery.”

“We do not need a nursery today.”

“Not today.”

“Not this week either.”

He considered that.

“Soon.”

She sighed, but she was smiling.

That mattered.

Arthur dropped onto the armchair opposite them with a pastry in his hand and a smugness level Charles found offensive.

“So,” Arthur said.

Charles looked at him. “No.”

“I have said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

Arthur placed a hand over his heart. “I was only going to say that as the person responsible for this marriage—”

Charles pointed at him. “No.”

“And as the first person to discover the blueberry—”

“Absolutely no.”

Arthur grinned. “I accept godfather duties.”

Charles stared at him.

Aimée started laughing.

Arthur beamed, clearly taking this as encouragement.

“I have experience,” he said. “I noticed the sushi. That proves attentiveness.”

“You noticed raw fish,” Charles said.

“Critical uncle skill.”

“You said blueberry in the car.”

“I said antioxidants!”

Lorenzo, from across the room, frowned. “What?”

Aimée laughed harder.

Pascale looked confused. “Why were you talking about blueberries?”

Arthur pointed at Aimée. “She said I cannot tell the sushi story.”

Aimée wiped under her eyes again. “I did not say that.”

“You implied.”

Charles leaned back, keeping Aimée tucked against him. “Tell the story.”

Aimée looked up at him. “You want the story?”

“I want every story.”

Her expression softened so suddenly that his chest hurt.

Arthur, unfortunately, took this as permission to perform.

Which he did.

Dramatically.

At length.

With hand gestures.

By the time he got to the soy sauce packet, Charlotte was laughing so hard she had to press a hand carefully to her stomach, Lorenzo was smiling despite his exhaustion, and Pascale looked both amused and moved in equal measure.

Aimée hid her face in Charles’ shoulder.

Charles kissed her hair.

“You cried over soy sauce?” he murmured.

She pinched his side.

He laughed.

Then he lowered his voice. “Next time, call me. I will open all the soy sauce packets.”

She went still for one second.

Then melted into him.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Charles closed his eyes.

That was what he wanted.

Not to fix everything. Not because he thought fear could be solved like a mechanical issue, identified and replaced.

He just wanted her to call.

To let him sit beside her on the floor with takeout and terror and a secret too big for one person.

To let him open the soy sauce packets.

To let him be there.

Across the room, Camilla began to fuss.

Everyone went still again, because apparently, one newborn sound could control an entire room of adults.

Charlotte held out her arms, and Lorenzo brought the baby to her. Camilla settled almost immediately against her mother, her tiny face turning toward Charlotte’s chest with a disgruntled determination that made Charles smile helplessly.

Aimée watched too.

Charles watched Aimée. The fear was still there.

He could see it.

But so was wonder.

He threaded his fingers through hers over her stomach.

“Our baby,” he whispered. Aimée looked at him. “Our blueberry,” he corrected.

She laughed softly. “Arthur is never going to let that go.”

“I know.”

“You hate that.”

“I do.”

“But you like the nickname.”

Charles looked down at their hands.

Then back at her.

“I love the nickname.”

Aimée’s eyes filled again, but this time she did not look frightened by it.

Charles leaned in and kissed her gently.

Not long.

Not enough to make Arthur gag, though he did anyway because he had no respect for beauty.

Just enough.

When Charles pulled back, Aimée rested her forehead against his.

“I wanted to tell you properly,” she whispered.

“You did.”

“This was not proper.”

“It was perfect.”

“Charles.”

“It was.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “I was holding Camilla, and I realized I wanted this with you, and then you told me we already had it.”

Her breath caught.

He smiled, teary and overwhelmed and happier than he had any idea what to do with. “That is perfect.”

Aimée stared at him for a moment.

Then she kissed him again.

Arthur made a gagging sound.

Pascale said, “Arthur, stop.”

Charlotte said, “No, let him suffer. He knew first.”

Arthur brightened. “Thank you.”

Charles pulled back just enough to glare at him. “You are not helping your godfather campaign.”

Arthur grinned. “But there is a campaign.”

“No.”

“There is absolutely a campaign.”

Aimée laughed into Charles’ shoulder.

Charles held her tighter.

Across the room, Lorenzo rocked Camilla while Charlotte adjusted the blanket. Pascale fussed gently over the coffee. Arthur stole another pastry and looked far too pleased with himself.

And Charles sat there with his wife against him, his niece newly born, and his hand resting over a secret that was no longer a secret.

His life had become too full in the span of a morning.

Too full of babies and brothers and pastry boxes and tears and joy so large it frightened him.

He looked down at Aimée.

She looked back.

Then she smiled.

Charles bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Then, because he could not help himself, he leaned lower and pressed one careful kiss over their joined hands.

“Bonjour, little blueberry,” he whispered.

Aimée made a soft sound that was half laugh, half sob.

Arthur whispered, “I knew that nickname would stick.”

Charles did not even argue. He was too happy. Far too happy.

And for once, the feeling did not feel too big to hold.

It felt exactly the size of the room.

Of Charlotte’s tired smile.

Of Lorenzo’s quiet pride.

Of Pascale’s tears.

Of Arthur’s smugness.

Of Camilla’s tiny hand.

Of Aimée’s fingers laced through his.

Of a blueberry-sized future waiting beneath his palm.

Their someday already there today. 

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 15 of F1 Oneshots (Driver x OC)