Home isn't a Place

Barcelona – Two Months Later

The loft had transformed.

Where once there had been scattered canvases and cleats, now there were baby blankets folded in soft pastel stacks. A crib stood near the window, sunlight bathing it in a golden glow. Tiny socks were tucked into drawers. Paintings—Aria's—hung in frames, surrounding the room in warm, personal bursts of color.

Ronan walked into the nursery carrying a box labeled "Dad Stuff". Inside: tiny jerseys, bedtime storybooks, a framed sonogram.

Aria leaned against the doorframe, hands on her lower back.

"You nested," she said with a smirk.

"I Googled it. Apparently, dads do it too."

She laughed, then winced slightly. "Okay. That was a Braxton Hicks for sure."

He dropped the box and was at her side in seconds. "Hospital?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Just practice contractions."

His hand rested gently on her stomach. "Still freaks me out."

"I like that it does," she whispered.

Later That Night – On the Rooftop

The sky above Barcelona was soft with stars.

Ronan held Aria close beneath a blanket, both of them curled up on a lounge chair. She placed her head on his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his arm.

"I submitted the cliff painting," she said softly. "It's going to hang in a gallery in Paris this fall."

He stilled. "Paris?"

"I'm not going," she added quickly. "Not now. Not with the baby coming. But… someday."

He nodded. "Someday sounds good."

She shifted to face him. "And what about you? You're still on that rugby break."

"I'm not going back," he said. "Not professionally. I've been talking to Coach Silva about training high school kids in the city. Give them the kind of mentorship I never had."

She smiled. "You'd be brilliant at that."

"I just want to be here," he said. "For you. For the baby. I don't want to miss a second."

The Next Morning – A Letter from the Past

Aria was organizing her art supplies when she found it: a sealed envelope at the bottom of her old sketchbook.

Her mother's handwriting.

She froze.

Carefully, she opened it and read.

My dearest Aria,

If you're reading this, you're probably older, wiser, and hopefully braver than I ever was. I always hoped you'd find someone who saw your fire and didn't try to put it out. Someone who let you be both soft and strong, artful and sharp. And when you do… trust it. Even if it's scary. Especially then.

Tears welled in her eyes.

She walked straight to Ronan, held out the letter.

He read it in silence, then looked at her. "She would've liked me?"

"She would've grilled you first," Aria sniffled. "But… yeah. I think she would've."

He pressed his lips to her temple. "Then I'll spend my whole life proving her right."

Three Weeks Later – The Hospital

The labor wasn't easy.

Aria screamed, cursed, sobbed. Ronan held her hand through every contraction, kissed her hair, whispered steadying words even when his heart was breaking watching her in pain.

"You're doing so good," he murmured. "You're so strong."

She glared at him. "You did this to me."

"I know, and I'm so sorry and so grateful."

Hours later, when the cries filled the room—sharp, new, full of life—both of them wept.

"It's a girl," the nurse smiled.

Aria reached for Ronan, tears streaming. "A girl…"

He cradled her and their daughter, voice hoarse. "She's perfect. Just like you."

One Week Later – The Naming

They sat under the same rooftop sky, this time with a tiny bundle between them.

"What should we name her?" Aria asked.

Ronan looked down at the baby's soft, sleepy face. "Something strong. Beautiful. Maybe something from one of your paintings?"

Aria thought. "Clara."

"Clara," he repeated, trying it out. "Bright. Clear. Honest. I love it."

"She'll never have to wonder if she's loved."

"Not for a single second."

They toasted with sparkling apple juice, Clara cradled between them. The city buzzed below, but up here—there was only quiet. Only peace.

Only home.