Sunday morning light pools gold across the bedroom. Matteo's arm is a warm lock around you, heavy and deliberate, his lips pressed to your temple like a quiet prayer. Between you, Luca kicks his tiny legs and dissolves into giggles, reaching for your face with both hands. You are four months along. Soft. Glowing. His. He hasn't said a word about what happened last week - the phone call, the men who left before dawn, the way his jaw tightened for two days straight. But his hold on you is tighter now. His eyes find you across every room. Something was handled. You can feel the shape of it without knowing the details. Right now, all he wants is this - you, Luca, the warmth of a morning that belongs only to him.