“Natalie.”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
“You’re going to say the baby does not need this many socks.”
His gaze drops to the drawer. “The baby does not need this many socks.”
“He has feet, Jordan.”
“Two.”
“Small feet get cold.”
“Not that cold.”
I place a hand over my stomach. “Your father is being difficult.”
Jordan’s mouth softens.
The baby kicks.
He crosses the room and lowers himself to the rug in front of me, his hand spreading over my belly with the same careful reverence that still makes my throat tight.
“There he is,” he murmurs.
“He likes your voice.”
“He has good taste.”
“He also kicks my ribs at three in the morning.”
Jordan looks up at me. “That part is from you.”
I gasp. “I am delicate.”
“You are terrifying.”
I smile. “You married me.”
“I know.”
His voice changes on those two words. Like he would do it again in every possible life.
He shifts closer and pulls me carefully into his lap. His arms close around me, one hand resting over our son.
This house is quiet, but it does not feel empty. It feels like it is waiting for noise. For our baby. For the big family we whisper about at night. For birthdays, bedtime stories, muddy shoes, andVivienne arriving “just for tea” with three bags of gifts and no intention of leaving before dinner.
Jordan kisses my temple. “Happy?”
The question is soft, but I hear everything inside it.
Are you safe?
Are you loved?
Did I keep my promise?
