Selene's POV
The next morning, the soft lull of baby Anaya's cries blended with the scent of incense and fresh marigolds that Luna's mother-in-law placed gently in the corners of the room. The hospital had never felt warmer.
Antonio and I arrived with breakfast—homemade by Luna's extended family, who had instantly folded us into their loving chaos. Saffron-stained rice cakes, coconut-filled puris, and sweet milk tea warmed our hands as much as our hearts.
Luna looked radiant, her hair tied back messily, cradling Anaya while Aarav filmed her talking to the baby in hushed Hindi. Antonio passed her a cup of tea, and I handed over a tiny dress I'd found on our way—a soft white cotton piece with little embroidered moons.
"I'm not crying," Luna said dramatically, already tearing up.
"Yes, you are," I whispered, grinning as I sat beside her. "And we're documenting all of it."
We took dozens of photos that day. Anaya yawning. Aarav asleep with one shoe on. Luna pretending to pose with a hospital bed as her throne. Antonio, holding the baby like the rarest gem in the world. And one—just one—of the four of us, framed together with the baby in the center, wrapped in her parents' love, and all of our joy.
The frame of forever.
Later that evening, we sat in the garden of Aarav's family home for a small, spontaneous celebration. Paper lanterns lit up the night. Laughter spilled across the tables. I saw Luna's parents dancing beside Aarav's cousins, and Antonio trying to learn the steps to a Nepali folk tune and Indian folk tune with the earnestness of someone trying to memorize a spell.
"Don't laugh at me," he told me as I twirled beside him.
"I'm laughing with you," I said, cheeks aching with happiness.
When it was time to leave, the goodbye felt longer than the hug itself. Luna squeezed me tight, pressing her forehead to mine.
"Thank you for coming all this way. You always show up for love, Selene. It's what makes you… you."
Tears welled up, but I smiled. "And you're the first girl I ever sketched a wedding dress for. We'll call it even."
Antonio hugged Aarav with a quiet nod that said more than words. We promised to visit again. Soon. Very soon.
As we drove back to the airport, my head rested on Antonio's shoulder. India passed us by in lights and shadows. The roads glimmered with festival decorations even though no holiday was in sight.
And I thought: Maybe that's what love feels like. A festival, unexpected. A joy that needs no reason.
We boarded the flight back to Paris with our hearts full. Of a new life welcomed. Of memories stitched in laughter and light. Of friendship that stayed. Of love that never stopped blooming.
And as the plane took off, I held Antonio's hand and whispered into the quiet air, "Goodbye for now, Anaya. We'll see you again when you're running through gardens."
The plane touched down with a soft lurch, and Paris greeted us beneath a pale sky streaked with silver morning light. I blinked against the sudden change—India's warmth still clinging to my skin, the cries of baby Anaya echoing in memory.
Antonio stretched beside me, then reached over to squeeze my hand. "Home," he said quietly.
I nodded, still half-lost in the afterglow of everything we had just lived through. The hallway outside customs buzzed with early travelers, the scent of coffee from nearby kiosks grounding us slowly back into familiar rhythm.
As we exited the arrival gate, I caught sight of them even before Antonio did.
Ayra waved both arms wildly in the air, a grin stretched across her face like sunrise. She was wearing a soft yellow sweater, the same one she'd bought on our last boutique spree together, and next to her stood Eliot—half-drowsy, clearly dragged here early, but smiling anyway. Mira leaned against the pillar beside them, scrolling casually on her phone, while Amara stood on tiptoe, holding a tiny "WELCOME BACK" placard decorated with far too many stickers.
"There they are!" Ayra shouted. "Took you long enough!"
I ran the rest of the way and was engulfed in arms, warmth, and voices talking over one another. Ayra hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe, then pulled back to look at my face.
"You look like you've just come back from a dream," she said.
"I think I did," I whispered.
Antonio was already wrapped in his sisters' embrace. Mira pretended to complain about how long we'd been gone, but Amara's squeal when Antonio picked her up said otherwise. Eliot came up to me with a warm smile, brushing hair from my cheek.
"Good trip?"
"The best," I replied, nodding.
We all made our way toward the parking garage together, the six of us bunched like puzzle pieces. Stories burst out between us—Ayra telling me about a last-minute boutique order, Mira rolling her eyes at Antonio's missed text in their sibling group chat, Eliot sharing how he and Ayra found a new dessert spot they swore to take us to next weekend.
I looked around at them—my family by heart—and felt something deep settle in me.
Home wasn't just this city, or the house waiting with its soft beds and worn rugs. It was this moment. These people. Their laughter. Their love.
As we reached the car, Ayra slipped her arm around mine. "So? When are we all taking a trip together again?"
I grinned. "Let's unpack this one first."
By evening, the sky had turned a warm shade of indigo. The soft clinks of dishes, laughter echoing off the walls, and the smell of freshly baked garlic bread filled our shared home once again.
Ayra lit a few candles—scented vanilla and honey—and arranged cushions on the floor like she always did when something felt special. Eliot helped her carry trays of snacks from the kitchen while Mira and Amara opened every cabinet as if they'd just moved in. Antonio was leaned back on the couch, sleeves rolled up, telling stories of our India trip to a very eager Mira who kept interrupting for details about Luna's husband.
I sat by the window for a moment, just watching it unfold. Ayra caught my eye and smiled—no words exchanged, just that quiet, soul-deep connection we had always shared.
"I missed this," I said softly, as I stepped into the center of the room again.
"And we missed you," Eliot replied, handing me a glass of warm cider. "This place wasn't the same without your late-night tea rituals."
"And your half-finished laundry," Ayra teased, nudging me with her shoulder.
We all gathered in a circle on the rug, plates balanced on our laps. Mira had taken over the music—gentle acoustic playing in the background—and Amara leaned against Antonio's shoulder as he braided her hair with all the patience in the world.
"I still can't believe Luna's a mom now," Ayra murmured to me.
"I know. Holding Anaya felt like holding a piece of something divine," I said, my voice hushed in reverence.
Ayra leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered, "One day, we'll have all this too."
I looked around our little circle—Eliot whispering something that made Ayra snort with laughter, Antonio watching me with that slow, secret smile of his, Mira and Amara dancing across the living room like children chasing fireflies—and I knew... we already did.
Not in the traditional sense. Not yet. But in these stolen hours and shared meals, in this ease of being known, we had built a world that was completely ours.
No grand declarations. Just comfort. Joy. Peace.
Family.
And beneath that roof, in a house stitched together by memories and love, we belonged.