The bedroom was filled with warm afternoon light. A soft breeze drifted in through the half-open balcony doors, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the garden. On the bed stood Nishant, pouting, hands on his slightly round belly, his eyes full of mock outrage.

Devraj, who had just come in with a tray of sliced fruits, stopped at the doorway and smiled at the sight before him. Five months already, he thought. Time had turned the sharp, proud politician into something far gentler a man whose world now revolved around one tiny heartbeat and the person carrying it.