One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 125: Chapter 125
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The dawn slipped in unnoticed—gray and soft, like a whisper against glass—as Arielle jolted awake to the sound of a baby crying. Her eyes stung. Her mouth tasted like regret. She blinked at the digital clock on the bedside table.
3:47 a.m.
Again.
She turned her head slowly to find Damien lying flat on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes. The baby’s monitor buzzed with low static, followed by another sharp wail.
“I’ll go,” she murmured, though her limbs felt like sandbags.
“No, I got it,” Damien said, already shifting with a groan. “Unless this is a dream. God, please be a dream.”
They both sat up at the same time, and for a moment, stared at each other like two soldiers on the same battlefield.
Damien swayed a little. “You okay?”
“I think I brushed my teeth with diaper cream yesterday.”
He blinked. “So... minty?”
“No. Medicinal.”
They laughed, the kind of laugh that teetered on the edge of hysteria. Damien rubbed his face and stumbled out of bed, bumping into the dresser, cursing softly.
Arielle lay back down, but her body refused to relax. The baby cried again, louder now, echoing through the paper-thin walls of their too-full house.
Sleep had become currency. And they were bankrupt.
By sunrise, the house resembled a war zone.
Zoe couldn’t find her uniform. One of the twins had colored all over the bathroom mirror. The baby refused to latch. The toddler poured an entire box of cereal into the sink and was now splashing in it like a water park.
Arielle was trying to finish a cup of cold coffee when Damien stumbled in, his shirt inside out, baby spit-up streaked down one side.
“I think I fed the baby twice,” he said. “Or maybe that was a dream.”
“You definitely fed the dog baby formula at some point,” she said, not looking up.
He blinked. “That wasn’t yogurt?”
Their eyes met. And they laughed again, sharp and sudden.
Later that afternoon, Damien emerged from a failed nap, eyes bloodshot, beard uneven from an interrupted shaving attempt.
Arielle was half-asleep on the couch, baby on her chest, a banana peel on the floor beside her.
He sat beside her carefully. “Hey.”
She mumbled, “Did we feed the toddler lunch?”
“Cheese stick and… some kind of cracker. Possibly cat food. Jury’s out.”
“Perfect. He’ll be fine.”
“Do you remember when we used to have sex like… three times a week?” Damien asked suddenly, eyes wide in mock horror.
Arielle chuckled. “You mean in the Golden Age of Sleep and Sanity?”
“Back when I wore real pants?”
“And I remembered my own name?”
They were both laughing now, bodies sagging against the couch cushions.
Damien reached for her hand. “We should schedule something. Like a Date Night. You know. Food. Clothes. No crying humans.”
“Will there be alcohol?”
“Definitely. Possibly in the form of an IV.”
“Will we fall asleep during appetizers?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Deal.”
That night, after the kids were asleep—or at least silent—Damien lit a candle in their bedroom. Arielle raised an eyebrow.
“Trying to seduce me?”
“Trying to remember that we’re still married.”
“I’m wearing socks with holes in them.”
“I haven’t changed my underwear in twelve hours.”
They burst out laughing, then kissed—slow and silly and tired, but real. Arielle pulled back, eyes soft.
“We’re still us, right?”
“Always,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her.
Their bodies didn’t move like they used to. There was no firestorm of passion. No urgent moans or tangled sheets. But there was warmth. Touches that spoke louder than words. Foreheads pressed together. Breath shared.
Love, in its most exhausted form.
Sometime around midnight, the baby cried again. Damien rolled over, groaning.
“I’ll get her,” Arielle said, already sitting up.
He grabbed her wrist. “Wait. I got it.”
“You’re dead on your feet.”
“So are you.”
They looked at each other. And then—because love demanded surrender sometimes—they got up together.
In the nursery, they stood side by side, rocking the baby in a rhythm so practiced, it had become sacred. She quieted almost immediately, nestled between them.
Arielle leaned into Damien, cheek against his shoulder.
“Still sexy,” she whispered.
“Even covered in spit-up?”
“Especially.”
The world outside their window was dark. The kind of dark that whispered secrets to those still awake. Inside, a tired couple held their baby and each other.
Sleep-deprived.
Overwhelmed.
But still in love.
3:47 a.m.
Again.
She turned her head slowly to find Damien lying flat on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes. The baby’s monitor buzzed with low static, followed by another sharp wail.
“I’ll go,” she murmured, though her limbs felt like sandbags.
“No, I got it,” Damien said, already shifting with a groan. “Unless this is a dream. God, please be a dream.”
They both sat up at the same time, and for a moment, stared at each other like two soldiers on the same battlefield.
Damien swayed a little. “You okay?”
“I think I brushed my teeth with diaper cream yesterday.”
He blinked. “So... minty?”
“No. Medicinal.”
They laughed, the kind of laugh that teetered on the edge of hysteria. Damien rubbed his face and stumbled out of bed, bumping into the dresser, cursing softly.
Arielle lay back down, but her body refused to relax. The baby cried again, louder now, echoing through the paper-thin walls of their too-full house.
Sleep had become currency. And they were bankrupt.
By sunrise, the house resembled a war zone.
Zoe couldn’t find her uniform. One of the twins had colored all over the bathroom mirror. The baby refused to latch. The toddler poured an entire box of cereal into the sink and was now splashing in it like a water park.
Arielle was trying to finish a cup of cold coffee when Damien stumbled in, his shirt inside out, baby spit-up streaked down one side.
“I think I fed the baby twice,” he said. “Or maybe that was a dream.”
“You definitely fed the dog baby formula at some point,” she said, not looking up.
He blinked. “That wasn’t yogurt?”
Their eyes met. And they laughed again, sharp and sudden.
Later that afternoon, Damien emerged from a failed nap, eyes bloodshot, beard uneven from an interrupted shaving attempt.
Arielle was half-asleep on the couch, baby on her chest, a banana peel on the floor beside her.
He sat beside her carefully. “Hey.”
She mumbled, “Did we feed the toddler lunch?”
“Cheese stick and… some kind of cracker. Possibly cat food. Jury’s out.”
“Perfect. He’ll be fine.”
“Do you remember when we used to have sex like… three times a week?” Damien asked suddenly, eyes wide in mock horror.
Arielle chuckled. “You mean in the Golden Age of Sleep and Sanity?”
“Back when I wore real pants?”
“And I remembered my own name?”
They were both laughing now, bodies sagging against the couch cushions.
Damien reached for her hand. “We should schedule something. Like a Date Night. You know. Food. Clothes. No crying humans.”
“Will there be alcohol?”
“Definitely. Possibly in the form of an IV.”
“Will we fall asleep during appetizers?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Deal.”
That night, after the kids were asleep—or at least silent—Damien lit a candle in their bedroom. Arielle raised an eyebrow.
“Trying to seduce me?”
“Trying to remember that we’re still married.”
“I’m wearing socks with holes in them.”
“I haven’t changed my underwear in twelve hours.”
They burst out laughing, then kissed—slow and silly and tired, but real. Arielle pulled back, eyes soft.
“We’re still us, right?”
“Always,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her.
Their bodies didn’t move like they used to. There was no firestorm of passion. No urgent moans or tangled sheets. But there was warmth. Touches that spoke louder than words. Foreheads pressed together. Breath shared.
Love, in its most exhausted form.
Sometime around midnight, the baby cried again. Damien rolled over, groaning.
“I’ll get her,” Arielle said, already sitting up.
He grabbed her wrist. “Wait. I got it.”
“You’re dead on your feet.”
“So are you.”
They looked at each other. And then—because love demanded surrender sometimes—they got up together.
In the nursery, they stood side by side, rocking the baby in a rhythm so practiced, it had become sacred. She quieted almost immediately, nestled between them.
Arielle leaned into Damien, cheek against his shoulder.
“Still sexy,” she whispered.
“Even covered in spit-up?”
“Especially.”
The world outside their window was dark. The kind of dark that whispered secrets to those still awake. Inside, a tired couple held their baby and each other.
Sleep-deprived.
Overwhelmed.
But still in love.
End of One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- Chapter 125. Continue reading Chapter 126 or return to One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- book page.