Raven
The next few days slip by beneath bright August skies and cool mountain nights. Life keeps moving the way it always does. We work. We eat dinner on the porch. Sam steals kisses whenever he passes me in the kitchen.
But underneath it all, we're waiting.
By the third morning, I wake before Sam and lie still, staring at the ceiling.
I listen.
To my body. To my thoughts. To the quiet hope I keep trying not to feed.
It answers with a strange fullness low in my abdomen. Not painful. Not uncomfortable. Just... different.
Maybe.
The thought drifts through me before I can push it away. I close my eyes and, just for a moment, let myself imagine the future.
Sam’s boots by the door, and something tiny beside them. A crib in our room, the window cracked open to let in mountain air.
His big hands holding something impossibly small, careful in a way he never is with anything else.
I can see him teaching our little someone to ride. Not a motorcycle yet. A bike with training wheels. His voice low and patient.
Would it be a girl? Would she have dark hair like mine and his stubborn chin? Or a boy who studies him, learning what it means to be a man even before he understands the word.
My hand presses against my stomach. There’s no movement. It would be too soon for that. But I swear I feel something.
It’s not physical, exactly. More like the sense of my body rearranging itself. Preparing.
Sam’s arm finds me in his sleep, like he senses the change in my breathing.
“You okay?” he murmurs without opening his eyes.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Just thinking.”
His hand drifts lower, settling over mine without hesitation.
Neither of us says it out loud.
We don’t have to.
By afternoon, I’m tired. Not bone-deep exhausted. Just slower. Like my body’s asking more from me than usual. I sit down halfway through folding laundry, staring at the small stack of towels like they’ve personally offended me.
This is new.
I grab my phone before I can stop myself and search the internet for ‘early pregnancy symptoms.’
Fatigue.
Bloating.
Fullness.
Tenderness.
I press my lips together to keep from smiling as I silently check off every single one.
When Sam comes in from the garage, I’m still sitting at the kitchen table with my phone in my hand.
“Google?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not the only one who researches things.”
He leans against the counter. “And?”
I shrug, trying to sound casual. “It says fatigue is common.”
His expression softens. “You have been more tired than normal.”
I hesitate, then say it anyway. “My breasts feel heavier. Tender.” I hesitate, then say it anyway. “My bra feels tighter.”
He pushes away from the counter and stops beside my chair. His gaze drifts down to my chest before returning to my face. "You won't catch me complaining," he says, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear before leaning down to kiss my forehead.
I roll my eyes, but I lean into him anyway.
We buy another box of tests the next day. They sit unopened in the bathroom drawer. Every morning I see them when I brush my teeth. Every night when I wash my face. Every time I think, maybe today.
But I leave them where they are.
The first three were easy. Exciting. I was sure there would be two lines.
This time feels different. Not because I'm any more certain. Because I'm not sure how many disappointments my heart can take.
Sam never asks if I've taken another test. He doesn't have to. We're both waiting.
That night, he pulls me a little closer as we settle into bed.
"A couple more days," he murmurs against my hair.
“Yeah,” I whisper as my eyes close, and I drift to sleep.