25. Mike
Twenty Five
Mike
I wake up before the sun.
Because she shifted in her sleep.
Just a little.
A soft sigh, the kind she makes when the baby rolls over. The kind that makes me bolt upright like someone fired a gun.
She’s fine.
Peaceful.
Hand curled under her cheek, lashes fluttering, her belly rising slow and full with every breath. My baby’s in there. Our baby.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I sink back down beside her, press my hand over the gentle curve of her stomach, and breathe through it.
My woman.
My baby.
My whole fucking world in one bed.
How am I supposed to be normal about that?
—-
By the time she opens her eyes, I’ve made toast, tea, fruit, three different types of scrambled eggs, and exactly two pancakes.
She blinks at the plate. “Babe…”
“You said yesterday you wanted something salty. And sweet. So I covered both.”
I kiss her forehead, rub her shoulders, help her sit up with every pillow in the cabin behind her.
She groans. “Mike, I’m pregnant. Not injured.”
“Pregnant with my kid,” I growl. “You don’t lift a finger.”
She stifles a laugh and reaches for the toast.
I hover.
She eats half a slice.
I breathe again.
—-
Later she says she wants to go into town.
I try to say no.
I fail.
But I drive. I park. I open the damn door for her.
And when Clara at the café says, “Oh look at that glow,” I say, dead serious, “Yeah. That’s mine.”
Shanay laughs. Clara coughs on her lavender honey latte.
—-
At the general store, Jack offers to carry a bag.
I stare him down for five whole seconds.
He backs up like I barked at him.
Good man.
Shanay grabs two tiny onesies and turns toward me with this… look. All sweet, all smug.
“You gonna build the diapers next?” she teases.
I lift my brow. “If I can figure out how.”
She shakes her head, giggling.
God, I’d murder for that laugh.
—-
At home, I watch her fold baby clothes while I finish the final shelf in the nursery. I built the crib from scratch. Sealed the glider three times. Double-anchored every piece of furniture.
She doesn’t say anything when she catches me staring.
Just lifts her shirt and rests both hands on her belly. Like she knows what it does to me.
I walk over.
Drop to my knees.
Kiss the bare skin I helped create.
“Still watching me like I’m gonna break,” she murmurs.
“You’re carrying the most important thing in the damn world.”
She tilts her head. “Not you?”
“You already broke me.”
—-
She reaches for a towel on a high shelf.
I’m across the kitchen in two seconds.
“Don’t reach,” I snap. “Jesus, Shanay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t reach. You ask.”
She rolls her eyes. “Or what?”
I crowd her back against the counter. Slide my hands over her hips, around her belly.
“Or I remind you exactly what this body was made for.”
Her breath catches.
Her lashes flutter.
I lift her—slow, gentle—and carry her to the couch.
—-
I strip her slow.
Spread her thighs.
Worship her like she’s sacred.
Because she is.
I kiss her everywhere.
Whisper against her skin: “So fucking beautiful.”
I lick and taste until she’s moaning, thighs trembling.
Then I pull her into my lap.
And sink in slow.
She gasps.
I wrap one hand around her belly.
“You feel that?”
She nods, eyes wide.
“That’s all mine. Inside and out.”
—-
I fuck her slow.
Praise every inch.
Tell her what a perfect wife she is, what a gorgeous mother she’s going to be.
And when she comes, I bury my face in her neck and follow—deep, shaking, overwhelmed.
—-
After, I tuck her into bed.
I rub her feet. Feed her one bite of strawberry at a time.
And when she finally drifts off, belly rising beneath my palm, I just lay there.
Breathing her in.
Building our forever.