Page 60 of Marrying the Pakhan

“There isn’t, but I’ll allow you the distinction. It’s good for morale.”

She laughs, and the sound steadies me, quiets whatever’s been slightly unsteady in my chest since I walked in and saw her struggling on that couch

Her body’s changed so completely these last months that some nights I still catch myself staring, not out of anything but genuine wonder, the way her stomach’s grown round and undeniable, the way she moves now with a careful weight she never carried before.

I remember the first photograph Dimitri handed me, months before any of this, a woman laughing at something out of frame, someone I convinced myself I was only marrying for practical reasons.

That woman feels like a different person from the one asleep beside me most nights, or maybe I’m the one who’s different now, seeing her clearly for the first time instead of cataloging her from a folder.

She’s building an entire person inside herself, and some nights the size of that fact still knocks the breath out of me if I let it.

“You’re staring,” she says, without opening her eyes.

“I’m allowed to stare at my own wife.”

“You’ve been staring more than usual lately.”

“You’re growing our child. I find that reasonably worth staring at.”

She opens her eyes at that, warmth passing between us, and I lean down and kiss her.

“Come here,” she says, tugging at my shirt.

“You’re exhausted. We don’t have to.”

“I want to. Exhausted isn’t the same as not wanting you.” She pulls me down beside her, and I go, careful of the way she has to shift and settle now, nothing about tonight requiring the urgency that used to define us.

“Tell me if anything’s uncomfortable,” I say. “I mean it.”

“I will. I promise.”

I keep working the tight muscles along her lower back until her shoulders finally drop and some of the tension leaves her spine. When I ease off, she lets out a long breath and leans back against the pillows I have already stacked for her.

“Better?”

“Much. You have unfairly good hands.”

I help her shift so she’s sitting more upright, one pillow behind her and another supporting her side. The curve of her stomach is a bit full. I rest my palm over it for a moment and feel a small answering push from inside. The sensation still stops me every time.

She watches my face and smiles. “Active tonight.”

“I noticed.”

I undress her slowly, careful with how she has to lift her hips and shift her weight. The shirt first, then the soft bra she has been living in for weeks. Her breasts are fuller and more sensitive than they used to be.

I support their weight with my hands for a moment before setting the fabric aside. When I ease her leggings and underwear down, she has to lean on my shoulder to step out of them. None of it is graceful. None of it needs to be.

Once she is bare, I take my time looking at her. The stretched skin of her stomach, the dark line that has appeared down the center, the way her body has grown round and undeniable. I do not hide the way I look.

“You’re staring again,” she says, but there is no complaint in it.

“I know.”

I help her settle back against the pillows, so she’s half-reclined and supported. Then I stretch out beside her and begin touching her with the same unhurried attention I gave her back.

My hands move over her shoulders, her arms, the new weight of her breasts. I keep the pressure light where she is tender. When my mouth follows the path of my hands, she makes a soft sound, and her fingers slide into my hair.

After a while she reaches for the hem of my shirt.