Rian's POV
Eight months pregnant, and Luca's nesting instinct kicks in hard.
I find him reorganizing the nursery for the third time this week.
"Baby, it's 2 AM."
"The crib should be on the other wall. Better feng shui." He's moving furniture—heavily pregnant and stubborn.
"Let me." I gently take the crib from him. "Where do you want it?"
"There. No, wait. Maybe here?" He's frantic, emotional. "I don't know! Nothing feels right!"
"Hey." I pull him close carefully. "It's okay. It's perfect. The baby won't care where the crib is."
"But what if it's wrong? What if he hates it? What if I'm a terrible parent who can't even design a nursery—"
"Luca." I cup his face. "Breathe. You're panicking."
"I'm nesting. Apparently it's a thing." He's crying now. "Everything needs to be perfect."
"It is perfect. The nursery, you, everything." I guide him to the rocking chair. "Sit. Let me handle this."
I spend the next hour rearranging everything exactly how he wants. He directs, I do the heavy lifting.
Finally satisfied, he surveys the room. "It's good. Really good."
"It's perfect. Like I said." I pull him up carefully. "Now bed. You need rest."
"Can't sleep. Too much energy."
"Then let me help you relax."
In our room, I massage his swollen feet, his aching back, his tense shoulders. Gradually, he calms.
"Sorry for being crazy," he mumbles.
"You're not crazy. You're preparing for our son. That's beautiful." I kiss his stomach. "Everything you're doing is perfect."
"Really?"
"Really." I settle beside him, hand on his prominent bump. "You're going to be an amazing parent, Luca. The best."
"How do you know?"
"Because you care this much. Because you want everything perfect for him." I kiss him softly. "That's what makes you perfect."
He relaxes finally, letting me hold him. Our son kicks vigorously, making his whole belly move.
"He's active tonight," Luca observes.
"Excited. Knows he's almost here." I talk to my son through Luca's stomach. "One more month, little one. Then we finally meet you."
Strong kick in response.
"He heard you," Luca laughs.
"Smart boy. Already knows his daddy's voice."
That night, I make love to him carefully—eight months pregnant, beautiful, glowing. Every touch worships him, our son, our family.
"Thank you," I breathe against his skin. "For our baby. For this life. For everything."
"Thank you for loving me. Both of us." He arches carefully. "For being excited about this."
"Most excited I've ever been." I move gently. "Can't wait to meet our son."
"One month," he gasps.
"One month until our family is complete."
Later, both satisfied and drowsy, I hold them both—my mate and my son.