“Because it’s a boy.” He sounded certain. “I know.”
We stayed like that a minute. His hand warm. My heart doing that stupid flutter thing I hated.
He picked up the pregnancy book from the nightstand, the one he’d bought weeks ago and barely touched until the trip. Flipped it open.
“Listen to this.” He cleared his throat. “‘By week twenty-four, the baby’s lungs are developing surfactant, which helps them breathe after birth.’”
He read slowly. Stumbled over “surfactant.” Pronounced it “sur-fac-tant” like he was sounding it out for the first time.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling too wide. “You’re reading to me.”
“Figured I should know what’s happening in there.” He turned the page. “‘The baby can now recognize your voice. And respond to it.’”
He looked up. “You talk to him a lot?”
“Every night.” I set the mug down. “I tell him stories. About the bakery I want to open. About how we’ll live somewhere quiet.”
Cal nodded. “I’ve been thinking about names.”
My breath caught. “Yeah?”
“Something simple. Strong.” He hesitated. “Like… Rowan. Or Jude.”
I tilted my head. “Jude.”
He shrugged. “Sounds like he could handle anything.”
We sat there. Him reading another paragraph, about fetal movement patterns, his voice low and careful. Me leaning into his shoulder. Letting the warmth spread.
Dangerous warmth.
Because it felt real.
Then the door burst open.
Kylie, four years old, pigtails flying, ran in. “Uncle Cal! Eli said he’d show me the redstone thing but he’s still sleeping! Can you wake him?”
Cal’s hand left my bump instantly. He stood. Posture shifted. Uncle mode. Easy smile. “Yeah, kiddo. Let’s go wake him.”
He glanced back at me. “I’ll be right back.”
The door closed behind them.
The room felt colder.
I stared at the tray. Pineapple suddenly looked too bright.
I set it aside. Lay back. Hand on my stomach.
The kick came again. Softer this time.
I whispered, “He’s trying, little one.”
But trying wasn’t the same as staying.
The beach that afternoon was bright and loud. Sand hot under towels. Waves rolling in steady.
Eli sat near the waterline building a sand fortress, precise towers, moats dug with geometric accuracy. He used a stick to mark perfect angles. No curves. Only lines.
