Page 149 of Scars and Crowns

"Keep going." She hums.

I smile, “I love you, and you are quite literally the love of my life.”

She tries to hold on to the glare, but the corner of her mouth gives her away. "I'll allow it."

"Thank you."

She settles deeper into the chair, one palm slowly moving over her stomach. The irritation drains from her face as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind the tiredness I've been noticing more often lately. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I don't mean to snap at everyone."

I come around the desk and crouch in front of her. "You don't have to apologize."

Before she can protest, I take one of her feet gently into my hands.

She exhales.

"There." I press my thumbs carefully into the arch of her foot, and her eyes close almost immediately. "You're learning."

"I've had three years."

"Still.” I emphasize, “Also," I add, glancing up at her, "I happen to be very invested in keeping my wife happy."

"Your wife is currently being held hostage by a watermelon."

I chuckle lightly. "I've been meaning to have a word with our child."

She laughs softly, and I feel something in my chest loosen at the sound. "Don't you dare blame the baby," she says. "They haven't even been born yet."

"Then we'll start negotiations early."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling now.

I keep massaging her foot while she leans back, eyes closed, and for a few minutes neither of us says anything.

Three years.

Sometimes I still catch myself thinking the number doesn't make sense.

Three years ago, I was still learning how to say I love you without feeling as though I'd handed someone the most vulnerable piece of myself I owned. Now I know exactly how she takes her tea now, which side of the bed she prefers when she's exhausted, which kind of silence means she's thinking and which means she's upset. I know the way she presses her lips together when she's trying not to laugh and the tiny crease that appears between her eyebrows when she's worried about someone else.

And now I know exactly how she looks when she's carrying our child. I never imagined I'd get to know any of this.

"Where's Sara?" she asks, opening one eye.

"In the garden."

"Doing what?"

"Reading."

She gives me a suspicious look. "Actually reading?"

"She has a book."

"That wasn't my question."

I smile. "She is actually reading."

"Good." She closes her eyes again.