"Barcelona Whispers: A Love Rekindled in the Spotlight"

Via blinked against the late afternoon light filtering through the gauzy curtains of their Barcelona villa, her sketchpad forgotten on the coffee table. Two months of this relentless rhythm—Arkin's body against hers at dawn, in the shower, over the kitchen island—had left her body humming, but lately, it was a different kind of exhaustion. She felt like she'd been dragged through a fog, eyelids heavy even after ten hours of sleep, her stomach twisting at the slightest whiff of coffee or the faint musk that clung to Arkin's skin after his morning runs. She'd snap at him one minute, craving the press of his chest, then pull away the next, mumbling about needing space. It didn't make sense, this push-pull, especially when her hands itched to trace his jaw, to yank him closer.

Arkin noticed, of course. He always did. "Babe, you okay?" he'd ask, hovering in the doorway of her studio, his shirt rumpled from whatever half-finished script he'd been scribbling. His eyes, that deep brown that used to make her knees weak, now sparked a weird mix of comfort and irritation in her gut. She wanted him gone, out of her sight, but the second he turned away, her chest ached like he'd taken the air with him. "Just tired," she'd mutter, waving him off, then ten minutes later, she'd pad into the living room and curl against his side on the couch, her fingers twisting in his tee. He'd wrap an arm around her without question, pressing a kiss to her temple, whispering, "I love you," like it was the cure to whatever ailed her.

That evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the walls in oranges, Via excused herself to the bathroom, the nausea hitting like a rogue wave. She braced against the sink, staring at her reflection—pale cheeks, dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. Arkin was in the kitchen, humming some melody he'd been tweaking for his directing project, the one that had him holed up in the villa's spare room for hours. The smell of garlic from the paella he'd started cooking—reminding her of that Christmas night when he'd surprised her with a guitar and those fumbling Spanish phrases—wafted under the door, and she gagged, clamping a hand over her mouth. This wasn't right. Her period was late, too, by almost three weeks. Heart pounding, she rummaged through the drawer for the pregnancy test she'd bought on a whim last week, hiding it from him like it was contraband.

Peeing on the stick felt mechanical, the wait interminable as she paced the tiled floor. Two lines. Clear as day. Pregnant. The word echoed in her head, a mix of terror and something warmer, like sunlight breaking through clouds. She was carrying his kid. Theirs. After all the separations, the jealousy over his on-screen flings, the reconciliations that left them raw and fused, this. Via pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach, a shaky laugh escaping. Arkin would lose it—in the best way.

She found him at the stove, stirring the pan, his back broad and familiar. "Hey," she said, voice softer than she'd intended, slipping the test into his pocket from behind. He startled, turning with a grin that faded when he felt the plastic. Pulling it out, his eyes scanned it, then widened, the spoon clattering to the counter.

"Babe... is this...?" His voice cracked, and before she could nod, tears welled up, spilling down his cheeks. He pulled her into a crushing hug, face buried in her hair, shoulders shaking. "Fuck, Via, a baby? You did this—for me? For us? I didn't... I never thought..." He pulled back, cupping her face, thumbs brushing away her own unexpected tears. "Are you sure? Like, really sure you want this? We can talk, whatever you need."

She nodded, leaning into his touch, the nausea forgotten for a moment. "I'm sure. We're sure." His clinginess, that possessive streak that had amped up since their reunion, felt right now—like it was building toward this.

The next morning, they drove to a small clinic on the outskirts of the city, the kind tucked away from tourist crowds, with white walls and the faint scent of antiseptic. Arkin held her hand the whole way, his free one drumming the wheel nervously. Inside, the ultrasound tech confirmed it: eight weeks along, a tiny blip of a heartbeat flickering on the screen. Via's breath caught, Arkin's grip tightening as he stared, transfixed. "That's ours," he whispered, kissing her knuckles, tears pricking his eyes again. The doctor rattled off advice—prenatals, rest, no heavy lifting—but Arkin was already nodding, memorizing every word like it was a script.

From that day, he transformed. The downbad husband, as she'd teasingly called him before, dialed it up to father-to-be mode. No more spontaneous fucks on the terrace or quickies in the studio; he abstained like his life depended on it, hands gentle when they touched, always pulling back before things heated. "Can't risk it, babe," he'd say, voice rough with restraint, tucking her into bed at night with a chaste kiss. But he cared for her fiercely—cooking bland rice porridge when her stomach rebelled against spices, rubbing her feet after long days sketching baby-proofed villa designs, even learning prenatal yoga poses from some app to guide her through them. He'd whisper "I love you" a hundred times a day, his hand splayed over her belly, feeling for kicks that hadn't started yet. Via felt beautiful under his gaze, his eyes lingering on the subtle swell starting to show, calling her his "glowing goddess" without a hint of sarcasm. It made her confident, this shift—her body changing, but his desire for her sharpening, patient and deep.

The first trimester dragged, a haze of drowsiness and cravings. Arkin adapted seamlessly, his directing project paused so he could shadow her every move. One night, as rain pattered against the villa's windows, she woke nauseous again, and he was there instantly, holding her hair back over the toilet, cool cloth on her forehead. "I've got you," he murmured, helping her back to bed, his body spooning hers without pressing further. She turned in his arms, kissing him slow, her hand sliding down his chest, but he caught her wrist gently. "Not yet, love. Doctor said second trimester." Frustration flickered in his eyes, dick half-hard against her thigh, but he rolled away, breathing deep. She admired it, that control, even as it left her aching.

By the fourth month, the nausea had eased, her energy returning in waves, the bump now a soft curve that Arkin couldn't stop touching. They were in the bedroom one lazy Sunday, sunlight slanting through the blinds, when she pulled him down onto the bed, straddling his hips. "I feel good," she said, grinding lightly against the bulge in his sweats. "Like, really good." His hands settled on her waist, hesitant, eyes searching hers.

"You sure? We don't have to—"

"Shut up and fuck me, Arkin." She peeled off her tank top, exposing her fuller breasts, nipples already pebbled. He groaned, sitting up to mouth one, sucking gently, tongue flicking the tip while his hands roamed her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her belly. It was different now—slower, more deliberate. Via tugged his sweats down, freeing his dick, thick and leaking at the tip. She stroked him base to head, feeling him throb, then guided him to her entrance, sinking down inch by inch. Her pussy was slick, walls hugging him tighter than before, the fullness making her gasp.

"Fuck, babe, you're so tight," he breathed, not thrusting yet, letting her set the pace. She rocked slow, clit grinding against his pubic bone, the pressure building steady. His hands supported her back, helping her lift and drop, eyes locked on where they joined—her lips stretched around his shaft, juices coating him. No rush, just this intimate slide, her breasts bouncing softly with each roll. Arkin leaned in, kissing her neck, whispering, "You look incredible like this, carrying our kid. I love you so much."

The words pushed her over, orgasm rippling through her, pussy clenching in waves, a soft squirt dampening his thighs. He held her down, grinding up once, twice, before pulling out and coming across her belly, hot stripes painting her skin. He rubbed it in gently, like lotion, then kissed the bump. "Beautiful," he said, pulling her to his chest.

Their lovemaking evolved from there, always mindful, him making her feel worshipped. Afternoons in the studio turned sensual—Via sketching at her table, Arkin kneeling between her legs, eating her out slow while she gripped the edge. His tongue traced her folds, lapping at her clit with flat strokes, two fingers curling inside to hit her g-spot without jarring her. She'd come with a muffled cry, hand in his hair, and he'd stand, dick straining, only to jerk himself off while watching her recover, spurting onto her thigh. "Can't get enough of you," he'd say, cleaning her up with a warm cloth, his touch lingering.

One evening, after a walk through the neighborhood—his arm around her waist, possessive as ever—they ended up on the rooftop terrace, the air cooling as dusk fell. Via stripped first, lying back on the daybed, her body curved and inviting. Arkin hovered, shedding his clothes, dick hard and curving up. "On top?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded, pulling him over her carefully. He entered her missionary, slow thrust filling her completely, the angle letting him grind deep without pressure on her belly. His hands braced on either side, he moved in long drags, pulling almost out before sliding back in, her pussy gripping him wet and hot. Via hooked her legs around his hips, urging him faster, nails digging into his ass. "Harder," she whispered, and he obliged, hips snapping sharper, the wet sounds mixing with their breaths. He reached between them, thumb circling her clit, and she shattered, walls fluttering, milking him until he groaned, pulling out to come on her bump again, the warmth spreading sticky.

But he didn't stop there—flipping her to her side, spooning behind, he kissed her shoulder, hand sliding down to finger her through the aftershocks. "You okay?" Always checking, that downbad care. She nodded, pushing back against his softening dick, already stirring again.

Nights blurred into mornings of exploration. Arkin massaged her everywhere—oiled hands kneading her calves, up her thighs, parting them to rub her pussy with firm circles, dipping fingers in to stroke her until she came, squirting onto the sheets. He'd abstain from penetrating sometimes, just watching her touch herself, his own hand fisting his dick in time with her moans. "So fucking hot, babe," he'd mutter, coming on his stomach, then cleaning up to hold her close.

The clinginess peaked in quiet moments—him singing soft lullabies to her belly in broken Spanish, the phrases he'd learned for her now layered with promises for their kid. Via felt confident, her body a vessel he adored, no trace of the old shyness. One afternoon in the kitchen, she bent over the counter for a glass, and he was there, hands on her hips, dick nudging her ass through his shorts. "Can I?" he asked, voice husky.

"Yeah." She braced, and he tugged her leggings down, licking a stripe up her pussy from behind, tongue probing her hole while his thumb teased her asshole. No rush, just wet, sucking pulls on her clit until she trembled, coming with a gasp. He stood, freeing his dick, and slid into her pussy, thrusting shallow, one hand on her belly for