In the golden hush of a summer afternoon, Padmé and her wife had just returned from a sun-drenched brunch downtown. The air still held the scent of jasmine and roasted coffee, lingering in the folds of their clothes. While Padmé stooped to refill the twin porcelain bowls for their cat—Threepio, whose persistent meows echoed like soft bells through the condo—her wife had wandered off to slip into something more comfortable.

In these later months of pregnancy, Padmé had quietly taken on the heavier load—grocery runs, meal prep, little tasks that kept their days moving smoothly. But never once had she resented it. How could she, when the love of her life was busy with something as miraculous as shaping the tiny heartbeat of their future?

Padmé had always dreamed of being a mother. Watching her sister bloom beautifully into motherhood, she had fantasized of one day doing the same herself. Now, with that dream blossoming before her, she moved through the world as if her feet barely touched the ground, each step down the hallway buoyed by quiet joy.

She opened the bedroom door gently, careful not to disturb her in case she’d curled up for an afternoon nap. But there she stood, framed by the soft light spilling in from the window, facing the mirror. The summer dress had been traded for a pair of cozy sweatpants, and she was now attempting to tug one of her old shirts down over her rounded belly, lips pursed in quiet frustration.

Padmé paused, her breath catching slightly at the tender, domestic beauty of the scene. Then she moved forward, soft as a sigh, and wrapped her arms around her wife's waist, resting her cheek against her shoulder.

"Leave it," she murmured, voice like silk. "You don’t have to hide anything here. You're radiant." Her hand slipped gently over the swell of her stomach, fingers splayed as if cradling the life beneath.

A laugh, small and breathless, rose in her throat, warm with wonder. "I can’t wait to do this with you."