The Nursery
Valeria
Summer had slowly reclaimed our lives.
I know it before the results even appear.
What we call intuition is often just silent reasoning finally reaching its conclusion.
Mine just did.
I stare at the screen. The data aligns with that rare kind of coherence no scientist mistakes for chance: stable, and reproducible. The molecule behaves exactly as I hoped—active only within a therapeutic framework, impossible to misuse. It will only heal.
I did it.
Three quick knocks sound at the door.
I go to open it.
Louane barely studies my face for a second before smiling.
“You did it.”
That’s not a question.
“Yes,” I say.
My voice barely trembles. Her eyes shine.
“What do you need?”
“Validation testing. Final protocol lock.”
She nods.
“I’ll handle it.”
No further questions. She understands.
When she leaves, I take my phone and call Dante. He answers on the first ring.
“Valeria?”
“Come to the lab.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m okay. The baby too.”
A brief silence.
“I’m coming.”
He’s there less than three minutes later. The moment he crosses the doorway, his eyes sweep over me quickly.
Then his shoulders relax.
“Tell me.”
I smile at him.
“I stabilized the formula.”
*
The next day, we’re supposed to paint the nursery.
Of course, it would be easier to hire someone to do it—and they’d probably do it better than we would.
Dante had insisted on doing it himself. He was convinced our baby would feel all the love poured into that room.
And when he gets an idea into his head, he never lets it go.
After long debates over colors, we finally chose a soft, luminous green. Dante then spent hours selecting the perfect paint—completely non-toxic for the baby.
We’re now standing in the room itself, Dante dressed in work clothes while I sit in an armchair beside a small table under strict orders not to touch a single paintbrush.
He sets down a mug of herbal tea, fruit, and pastries on the table.
In other words, I’m fully equipped to survive a siege.
I pick up my mug.
Then the show begins.
He opens the paint can, pours some into the tray, dips the roller in, and starts painting.
Focused on what he was doing, he looked ridiculously handsome—and me?
I shamelessly ogled him.
From where I’m sitting, the view of his ass in those jeans is absolutely perfect. And don’t even get me started on the muscles flexing under that shirt.
Discreetly, I pull out my phone and start filming him.
“I know exactly what you’re doing,” he says without turning around.
“What? No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Valeria.”
I don’t answer. I just quietly laugh to myself before sending the video into the group chat titled: Baby on Board.
Almost immediately, messages start flooding in.
AMELIA: I can’t believe this. How did you pull that off? He never wanted to paint anything in our house.
BERNADETTE: Send him over afterward. My living room needs repainting.
I snort.
ANDREA: Little troublemaker. Hope you’re enjoying the view.
AMELIA: Andrea! Have some dignity.
HUGO: To be fair, those jeans do give him an incredible ass.
I burst out laughing.
A hand gently steals my phone away. Dante glances at the screen before shaking his head with weary amusement.
“You’re making fun of me, woman. That deserves punishment.”
Then he bends down and captures my mouth with his.
The kiss is tender and sensual, and in less than a minute, my pulse is already racing.
Without a word, Dante lifts me into his arms and carries me toward our bed.
He undresses me slowly, his eyes moving over my body—a body I barely recognize anymore—with quiet reverence.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and heavy with want.
His hand traces my rounded belly, then brushes over my hypersensitive breasts.
Only he can make me feel beautiful like this.
He covers me in kisses, unhurried and deliberate.
When his mouth finds my clit, I come alive.
He hooks my legs around his head for better access, then slides his tongue inside me.
I moan beneath him, my hips rising to meet him, chasing more friction.
When I come against his mouth, he lifts his head with a deeply satisfied look before pushing himself upright.
His eyes never leave mine as he undresses, revealing his body.
God, I love this man.
He eases down behind me carefully, lifts my leg to make room, and enters me slowly from behind.
The feeling of him filling me is so intense I’m already close to coming again.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Perfect.”
He begins to move—one arm wrapped around me above my belly, the other tucked beneath my head. His hips rock slowly at first, then build, then ease back again, like he’s determined to make it last as long as possible.
And then the heat takes over. Skin against skin, breathless sounds tangled together.
His hand slips between us, gathering some of our shared slickness before pressing his index finger lightly against my clit, just holding it there, letting his thrusts do the rest. It’s enough.
More than enough. I clench around him, and he follows, his body pressing hard into mine as my name breaks from his lips.
Much later, we make our way back to the nursery. The half-painted wall has dried.
“You know there’s going to be a mark,” I point out as he picks the roller back up.
He grins—slow and unrepentant.
“Just the two of us will know exactly why.”
Impossible man.