Six months into their marriage, Evan was still adjusting to the sound of someone else breathing beside him in the morning.
The sun filtered gently through the window of their tiny Manila apartment, painting golden lines across the sheets. Alia lay curled beside him, her hair a soft mess over the pillow, her lips slightly parted. Evan watched her, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He still couldn't believe this was real.
He carefully got out of bed, trying not to wake her. The floor was cold, the apartment quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional honk. It was barely 6 a.m., but he liked this silence. It was a reminder that life, for once, wasn't rushing past him.
He made coffee, two mugs. One with extra milk—hers.
By the time Alia emerged from the bedroom, hair tied in a lazy bun, Evan had already started cooking instant noodles.
"You're going to spoil me," she mumbled, her voice still sleepy.
"I'm just making up for three years of missed breakfasts," he said, placing her mug in front of her. "Though I'll need a lifetime for that."
She smiled and leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee. "Then you better start now, husband."
---
Living together was everything and nothing like they expected.
They argued about little things—how to fold towels, whether the rice cooker should be cleaned immediately or later, which way the toilet paper roll should face.
But they also learned each other's rhythms: Alia's habit of humming when nervous, Evan's way of biting his lip when deep in thought. They weren't just building a home—they were becoming one.
Money was tight. Evan's freelance gigs weren't always steady, and Alia's hospital shifts were long and draining. There were days they barely spoke, only exchanged exhausted looks across a dinner table lit by a single bulb.
But on other nights, they danced in the living room with no music. Or sat on the floor eating cereal, laughing at old texts they once sent each other.
They were far from perfect.
But they were together.
---
One rainy Thursday night, Evan came home early.
Alia was sitting on the bathroom floor, holding a small stick in her hand. Her eyes were wide, stunned, like she wasn't sure whether to smile or cry.
"What's wrong?" Evan rushed to her side, heart pounding.
She looked up at him, then back at the stick.
"Two lines," she whispered.
Evan blinked. Then again.
Then his knees gave out and he sank to the floor, covering his mouth with both hands.
"Wait—seriously?"
She nodded slowly, and then the tears came. Hers first, then his.
"We're going to be parents?" he said, his voice cracking.
Alia nodded again.
And in that tiny bathroom, beneath a flickering light, Evan wrapped his arms around her, holding everything they'd ever dreamed of.
---
Nine months passed in a blur of hospital checkups, budget spreadsheets, and name debates.
They painted the baby's corner sky blue. Alia wanted the name Mira, and Evan agreed instantly. He had already whispered that name in his heart since the first ultrasound.
When Mira was born, nothing else in the world mattered.
Alia lay in the hospital bed, pale but glowing. Evan held the baby against his chest, trembling.
"She's so small," he whispered.
"She's perfect," Alia murmured.
---
That night, as Mira slept in her crib, Evan sat on the floor beside Alia's bed.
He took her hand.
"You know," he said quietly, "I used to think love was about big gestures. Surprises. Airport reunions. Proposals."
Alia turned her head slowly to look at him.
"But now I think... love is this. You. Me. A messy apartment. A crying baby. Cold coffee. Quiet mornings."
He kissed her fingers.
"I finally get it now. Home isn't a place. It's us."