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Instead of that rationale soothing me, it only amps up my anxiety.
"Evie? Hunter? I'm home," I yell, pitching my voice louder. Not that it would fucking matter if she was on the other side of the house.
I toe off my work boots, shuffling them to the side of the entryway where Evie and Hunter's one-of-a-kind bench. It's sage green with hand-painted daisies on the sides.
The low hum of air conditioning pumping through the vents answers me, but it does nothing to cool the sweat stuck to my skin.
I stalk through the house on a mission, looking for my wife and son. The kitchen and living room both turn up empty, which usually means one place: the home theatre.
It was one of the only things Bane insisted on when we built this house. He watches more movies than anyone I know. I might’ve protested at the pretentiousness of it all, but even I can admit it’s a great space. We find ourselves in there more than the living room or any other place outside of our respective bedrooms.
The sounds of some lyrical singing comes from the open door to the theatre room. It fills the hallway and I can just make out the words to the song Hunter’s been singing nonstop for the last two weeks.
I stop inside the threshold of the door, giving myself time to take in the sight before me. To calm my racing heart with the sight of them sprawled out on the modular couch in the middle of the room. Soft snores punctuate the mellow melody of the song, and I let out a sigh of relief.
It's this unspoken agreement the three of us made a few months ago after the waffle debacle. Nova had mentioned Evie's recent snoring habits as she was plating chocolate chip Belgian waffles her and Hunter had made. But by the way she reacted, you would've sworn he told her she shits the bed every night. She glared at him and fixed her and Hunter's plates like nothing happened. Then she left the three of us in the kitchen, hungry and waffle-less. To add insult to injury, Hunter raved about those waffles for two fucking weeks.
Annoyance simmers under my skin when I think about how it took me nearly eight weeks to convince her to make them for me again. And you better believe I threw my asshole brother under the bus faster than he could backpedal. He should've known better than to bring that shit up when she was already so conscious of all the changes her body was going through.
I stop next to her, slipping my phone from my pocket without taking my eyes off of her.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
It's a revelation I find myself experiencing daily.
I swipe up to open the camera app and snap photos from a few different angles. One that showcases her growing belly. Another one that frames her beautiful face, her freckles deeper from all her time in the sun. I take a step back to get the full photo: Evie slightly propped up, head angled to the right, and our boy tucked in tight next to her. His hand rests on the top of her belly, and I switch my phone into video mode quickly.
I crouch down to get the perfect angle and hit record. A smile blooms so fucking wide my cheeks ache. There, there it is. Baby kicks again, pushing right at the spot where Hunter's hand rests, his index finger moving like he's tapping in Morse code.
I reign in my snicker at how fucking cute it is. How fucking cute my boy is.
He's getting big now, growing like the weeds they pull from the back flowerbeds. I used to worry that I was robbing him of a real childhood. That despite my best efforts, having a Reaper father would age him, smother his sweetness too soon.
But Evie nurtures his youth, giving him space to be a kid. To be kind even when faced with cruelty. To be sweet and caring. She shields him from everything, and I can never thank her enough for it.
Though I do try, usually on my knees, and as often as she lets me.
I’ll never forget when Hunter’s school called to tell us he was suspended for fighting. Evie marched down there in her bright pink sundress with her sweet-as-pie smile and told the principal he was a fucking idiot, so it’s mildly threatening but southern sweet.
I'd asked her why she came in swinging, and she replied simply, "I'm his mother."
I take a few more photos and add them to my Evie folder on my phone. She doesn't know I've been sneaking photos of her like a fucking stalker, but I can't stop myself. I got the idea from one of those parenting magazines I found tucked under her pillow one day.
I ease myself onto the couch next to her, and she stirs a little, her lashes fluttering before her eyes focus on me.
"Silas?"
“Shh, baby, close your eyes.” I tuck in close to her and lay my palm over her stomach, my fingers resting over Hunter’s.
"What time is it? We need to get dinner started," she murmurs, her eyes already closing.
"We will, Evie. First, let me say hi to my baby. I haven't seen her all day." Joy wraps around my words, weaves between each letter. An elbow or maybe a foot bumps against my hand, and I swipe my thumb across the fabric of Evie's dress. "Hi, baby. I'm here. Daddy's here," I croon softly.
Evie tsks, this soft noise in the back of her throat, and I already know what she's going to say.
"You're going to confuse her, you know." Her voice is raspy with sleep.
"Nah, she won't know that there are three of us."
She cracks an eye open and arches a brow. "Babies one hundred percent recognize voices, Silas. Surely you, of all people, know this."
I grin at her with a wink. “Exactly, Evie. Why do you think I’ve been reading to her every night? I got a bet with them, and I’ll be damned if my baby girl comes out recognizing their voices over mine.”
She laughs, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. “You guys are ridiculous. So possessive already.”
I brush my lips across her stomach with reverence. “Only with you, Evie. Only with you.”
