Chapter Text
Five years later, their life had expanded in ways neither of them could have fully imagined. They had moved to a bigger apartment, filled not only with Muvmuv’s items and love, but with the laughter and tiny footsteps of their four year-old son.
He was nicknamed Gem — their precious baby in their new chapter of life as a family of four.
Gem is bright-eyed, endlessly curious, and with a grin that mirrored both of his mothers. He carried the best of Milk and Love in him. He had Milk’s warmth, Love’s focus, and the kind of confidence that made every day feel like the start of something new.
He was conceived through IVF with so much love and dedication — a journey that tested Milk and Love’s patience and truly deepened their love for one another. The decision of who would carry had taken months of gentle debates, medical consultations, and late-night talks over warm milk and cozy blankets.
“Let’s use yours,” Milk had said one night, tracing lazy circles on Love’s hand that is on her tummy, “And I’ll be the one carrying. You’re too small for this kind of pain.”
Love laughed softly, but there was a hesitation in her voice. “And you think I could bear watching you go through it?”
Milk just lets out a soft smile. “If it means that we will get to see our child in the end, I am willing to go through it.”
Love wanted to retort but she knew Milk’s mind was made up — not out of pride, but love, love so steady it anchored them both.
However, retrieving the egg was not an easy process either. Love had to endure weeks of hormone injections — one every morning, sometimes two. Milk handled each one herself, sitting close, her hands steady, whispering soft reassurances.
“There. All done,” she’d say each time while pulling away the syringe, pressing a kiss to Love’s temple afterward, as if sealing a promise.
Some nights, when Love felt bloated or exhausted from the hormones, Milk would cradle her gently, murmuring, “It’s okay…it will pass soon.”
When the fertilised embryo was finally transferred, and the two little lines appeared on the test weeks later, they cried — quiet, grateful tears that came from the deepest corners of the heart. Love hugged Milk so tightly, her face buried in her chest. She knew the months ahead would be challenging, but together, they could endure anything.
Months later, when Milk’s belly began to round, Love made it a ritual to talk to it every night, her voice soft and full of affection.
She would rest her hand gently over the gentle curve, caressing it as if her touch could reach the little heartbeat inside.
“Hi, little one,” she’d whisper, smiling through her sleepy eyes. “It’s Mami. Be gentle with Mi, okay? Good night… and I love you.”
Milk, both amused and moved, would chuckle softly. “He’s so loved already… but why am I getting jealous?”
Love looked up from the curve of Milk’s belly, her expression tender. She shifted closer, resting her head on Milk’s chest where her heartbeat was strongest.
“But you’ll always be my main priority,” she murmured.
Milk kissed the top of her head, smiling through quiet tears. “I love you, N’Love,” she whispered, her hand resting over Love’s, both of them feeling their little world growing between their palms.
Their pregnancy months unfolded slowly and sweetly — filled with gentle debates over baby names, nursery room decorations, and who would handle the midnight feeds. Love took on almost everything: driving, errands, household chores, and every random cravings that sent her searching for snacks or making strawberry oatmilk shake in the middle of the day. She pampered Milk endlessly — kisses on the forehead, quiet leg massages, and constant reminders to “sit down before you trip over something.”
Milk would laugh and roll her eyes, pretending to protest, but she secretly melted every single time. Love, ever sentimental, recorded little vlogs along the way — from Milk’s cravings to her sleepy morning smiles — stitching them together into a keepsake of their growing family to share with friends and family.
Milk’s pregnancy had changed Love in ways she didn’t expect. Suddenly, she found herself more on the giving end in their relationship— rearranging her schedule, skipping late meetings, and managing her growing company from home just to make sure Milk was cared for and comfortable. Her friends and colleagues teased her sometimes, calling her “the most devoted wife ever,” but Love only smiled because she felt this was the bare minimum she could do.
Still, there were moments when exhaustion caught up — when Love’s phone buzzed endlessly and her laptop stayed open well past midnight. On those nights, Milk would reach out from the couch, gently tugging her hand and whispering, “Slow down, N’Love. Remember why you started all this.”
Those simple words always brought Love back — to her dream, their dream — a life built not just on success, but on love, softness, and shared purpose.
*
The day of delivery began quietly, almost too ordinary to hint at what was coming.
Milk, heavily pregnant and a week and a half away from her expected due date, was resting on the bed — a soft morning light spilling across the room.
Ciize had texted earlier that morning, saying she’d baked something new and wanted Milk to try it.
Love had been working from home for two weeks, ever since the doctor warned that labor could begin at any moment. She couldn’t bear the thought of being away, so she rearranged her entire schedule and turned the dining table into a temporary office — her laptop glowing softly beside a half-finished cup of matcha and files stacked up. Every so often, she’d glance toward Milk in the bedroom, a quiet smile tugging at her lips, her world fitting perfectly within the apartment.
When Milk sat up from the bed to go to the bathroom, her hand instinctively went to her belly. A dull cramp rippled through her lower abdomen — mild, but enough to make her pause.
“N’Love?” she called softly.
Love looked up immediately, already attuned to every change in Milk’s tone. “What’s wrong...?”
Milk smiled faintly. “Probably nothing. Just a little tight… maybe another random contraction.”
Love was already at her side, crouching next to the bed. “You sure? You dolook a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” Milk said, brushing her hair back. “And Ciize’s coming soon with that new cake. I’m not going anywhere until I taste it.” She joked.
Love tried to smile, but her eyes lingered on Milk’s hand — it hadn’t left her belly. She then helped her up from the bed and walked her toward the bathroom, but halfway there, another cramp came — sharper this time. Milk stopped mid-step, her breath catching.
“Love…”
“The contraction came again?” Love’s voice trembled slightly.
“I think…” Milk exhaled slowly, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. “I think maybe it’s time.”
Within minutes, the calm morning turned into a blur of motion. Love moved with surprising precision — the exact scenario that had been playing in her mind for weeks.
Phone in one hand calling the hospital and then Ciize, the other grabbing the overnight bag they’d packed weeks ago. Her heart pounded, but her voice stayed steady as she helped Milk to get dressed for the hospital, whispering, “It’s okay, P’Milk. I’ve got you. I am right here with you.”
By the time Ciize arrived, the apartment was a whirl of quiet urgency — Milk seated by the entrance, breathing through her contractions that came more frequently, and Love kneeling beside her, murmuring comfort with a trembling smile.
“Let’s go,” Ciize urged, eyes wide but teary with excitement.
Love laughed nervously as she helped Milk into Ciize’s car, her fingers never once leaving Milk’s hand. The usually composed CEO — the woman who faced investors and crises without flinching — now looked moments away from tears.
At the hospital, as the hours stretched on, Love stayed right beside her. She held Milk’s hand through every contraction, whispering encouragement even when her own voice shook.
“You’re doing so well, P’Milk… just a little more, okay?”
When Milk finally let out a last, exhausted cry and their son’s first wail filled the room, Love froze. The sound was raw and beautiful — the kind that cracked something open inside her.
Her eyes filled instantly, and before she knew it, she was laughing and crying at once, pressing her forehead to Milk’s damp hair.
“He’s here,” Love whispered, voice trembling. “Our baby’s here.”
Milk could barely speak. Love kissed Milk’s temple, her voice breaking. “You did it. You really did it.”
When the nurse placed the tiny, squirming bundle into Milk’s arms, the world seemed to still. Their son wriggled like a little worm, blinking curiously before his dark eyes fluttered open — his small fist waving in the air as if saying hello for the first time to his moms.
Love leaned close, her voice soft and trembling. “I love you so much, P’Milk.”
Exhausted, Milk smiled faintly — and in that moment, Love knew she would never see the world the same way again.
The first few weeks at home passed in a blur of sleepless nights and tender new routines. Their apartment, once filled with the scent of baked bread, now carried the soft, sweet fragrance of baby lotion and warm milk.
Friends and family came by in gentle waves — always brief, never loud. They brought small gifts, warm meals, and laughter kept to soft tones so as not to wake the baby. Every visit ended with the same quiet awe as they peeked at little Gem, swaddled and dreaming, his tiny fingers curled around Milk’s thumb.
Love had arranged everything down to the smallest detail. Before Milk even returned home, she had hired an experienced confinement lady — someone familiar with traditional Thai postpartum care — to ensure Milk’s recovery went smoothly. The lady prepared restorative broths, herbal teas, and nutritious meals made to strengthen Milk’s body and soothe her back to balance.
Milk, at first, had protested the ‘royal treatment’, laughing that she felt more like a patient than a new mother. But Love, firm yet gentle, wouldn’t let her lift a finger.
“Your only job,” she’d said while tucking a blanket around Milk’s shoulders before pressing a kiss on her forehead, “is to rest. I will take care of everything else.”
And she did. Love managed the house, the baby, her company and got updates on the bakery from Ciize — all while hovering protectively around Milk. Even in her exhaustion, Milk couldn’t help but smile watching Love pacing around with a milk bottle in one hand, phone in the other, giving instructions to her staff like a general on a mission.
Those days were soft and hazy, full of whispered lullabies and the quiet joy of learning — how to soothe tiny cries, how to take turns napping, how to take turns feeding and how to love even deeper through the haze of sleeplessness.
In the stillness of early mornings, when the world outside was just beginning to wake, Milk would glance at Love — her hair messy, face tired but shining as she watched her and their baby sleep — and think, This is exactly where I was meant to be.
*
Time passed, and the little boy grew—smart, active, cheerful, and impossibly polite. He carried both his mothers in him: that mischievous grin that mirrored Milk’s, and his sparkling bright boba eyes, so reminiscent of Love.
Parenting, as Milk and Love quickly learned, was its own kind of adventure.
Milk was the playful one — the “Mi” who let Gem stay up ten minutes past bedtime to finish his crayon drawing, who built blanket forts in the living room during rainy days and turned breakfast into mini food art competitions. When Gem’s laughter filled the apartment, Milk’s laughter could always be heard just a little louder and the two of them lost in their own silly little world.
Love, on the other hand, was the steady compass of the house. “Mami” made sure vegetables were eaten, teeth were brushed, and homeworks were submitted on time. She’s also the one who explained the world with patience and tucked him in with stories about courage and kindness. Love believed in gentle structure — a calm firmness that balanced Milk’s boundless spontaneity.
Yet, she could never resist when Milk and Gem conspired together with matching puppy eyes.
Sometimes Love would sigh, “You’re both impossible,” as she cleaned up flour from yet another impromptu dough experiment.
And Milk would grin, wrapping an arm around her. “You love us anyway.” She said as she stole a kiss on her cheek.
Love would pause, trying to look stern — but the faint smile always gave her away.
It was this balance — Milk’s warmth and Love’s quiet steadiness — that made their little home glow with life.
But when Gem got too wild with Milk — knocking over toy towers or refusing bedtime or playing too rough with Muvmuv — Love never had to raise her voice. One stern stare was enough to freeze both her wife and son in place. Milk would sheepishly scratch her head, whispering, “We got busted,” while Gem pouted, muttering a soft apology under his breath.
Now, as their son began preschool, his curiosity blossomed. He’d chatter endlessly about letters, friends, and stories, asking “why” a hundred times a day.
One sunny afternoon, while doodling with crayons on the kitchen table, he looked up with big, innocent eyes.
“Mi, Mami… how did you meet each other?”
The question hung in the air — soft and sweet — like a doorway opening into the love story that had started it all.
Milk, who was rinsing strawberries at the sink, turned with a mischievous grin.
“Well,” she began dramatically, wiping her hands on her apron, “Mami saw me one day and thought, Wow, this person is so beautiful, I must marry her! Then Mami fell so hard for me, cried for me, and chased after me with lots of delicious food and gifts—”
“Mami!” Gem burst into giggles, nearly tipping over his crayon box.
Love, who was beside him, raised an eyebrow. “That is absolutely not what happened.”
Milk winked. “Okay, maybe not the crying part.”
“Maybe not any of it,” Love countered, though her lips curved into a soft smile. “The truth is… we met at Mi’s bakery. Then we became friends first. And one day, I realized I didn’t just feel safe with her — I felt at home.”
Gem tilted his head, crayons forgotten. “Home… like this home?”
“Exactly,” Love nodded, her gaze flicking tenderly to Milk. “Mi became my home before we even lived together.”
Milk, quieter now, slid into the chair beside the two. Resting her chin on Love’s shoulder, she whispered just loud enough for their son to hear, “And then I fell for Mami too… every smile, every stubborn little frown. Your Mami was the easiest decision of my life.”
Their son beamed at them, eyes round with wonder. “So… you loved each other first. And then you loved me?”
“Yes, always,” Milk said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“And forever,” Love added, brushing her hand gently over his hair.
*
A few weeks later came Gem’s first school performance. The small hall was decked out with paper stars and cardboard trees, and the little boy — wearing a handmade costume and an oversized hat — stood on stage with his classmates, looking so adorable.
From the audience, among the other parents, Milk was already misty-eyed, waving to the stage with the unrestrained pride of her child. Beside her, Love tried to film steadily, but her hands trembled slightly with emotion.
When Gem spotted them in the crowd, he waved shyly — then broke into that same bright grin that mirrored Milk’s.
As he began to sing his little song, slightly off-key but full of heart, Milk reached for Love’s hand. Their fingers intertwined naturally, as always.
“He’s growing so fast,” Milk whispered, voice trembling with pride. “I am so proud of our boy.”
Love nodded, her eyes never leaving the stage. “He’s perfect… just like you.”
When the performance ended, their son ran straight into their arms—his costume crumpled, his cheeks flushed—and the three of them laughed together, wrapped in warmth that needed no words.
In that moment, under the warm light of the school hall, Milk and Love knew: this was their forever, the warmth of a story that had no ending — only beginnings.
And so their story continued, not just theirs anymore, but theirs together as three.