“We did that,” I correct.
I lean in at the same time he does. Our foreheads touch for a heartbeat, a brief, shaky breath shared, and then his mouth finds mine.
It’s gentle at first, just a soft press of his lips. His mouth warm and careful against mine. I taste mint and something darker that’s just him. The knot between my ribs loosens a notch. His thumb skims the hinge of my jaw, a slow, reassuring stroke that says “I’ve got you, I’m here.”
I breathe out against his mouth and he takes it in, deepening it a fraction. Heat pools low and spreads like honey in my belly. The paper under me crackles when I lean into him. His other hand finds my temple, fingers threading into my hair, cradling, holding me to him, making it impossible to do anything but lean closer.
The kiss shifts from comfort to want, need, without either of us meaning to. His lips part and mine follow, a hush of breath, the slide of tongues that makes my pulse jump in my throat. The little room falls away.
There’s only the monitor’s glow, the faint ghost of our baby’s rhythm still thrumming in my bones, and the way he kisses me like I’m everything.
I make a sound, quiet and needy, and feel him answer it, a soft groan caught in his chest. His hand at my jaw angles me, and the next pass is deeper, hotter. My fingers curl in his shirt, knuckles brushing warm skin at his collar as I pull him closer. He goes, gladly, crowding me without suffocating.
The air gets thin. I kiss him anyway. Every careful line we drew blurs and disappears in the heat. His tongue becomes more demanding, and I answer, opening my mouth for him to plunder deeper.
I forget I’m in a gown. I forget where we are, why we’re here. The need that’s been stalking me for weeks flares, hot and shameless. My knees shift under the sheet, and his hand drops to my leg, caressing the exposed skin.
“Luca,” I whisper into his mouth.
“I know,” he murmurs, and kisses me again.
The small knock at the door pulls us apart, and I suck in a desperate breath.
The door opens softly, and Dr. Bianchi is already speaking as she steps in, cheerful but gentle. “All right. How are we doing in here?”
Heat floods my face. Luca eases back an inch, his hand sliding from my leg to lace our fingers again like it was always just that. I clear my throat. “Good,” I manage. “We’re… good.”
Her calm smile doesn’t change. If she notices the change in the air, she pretends not to.
“Wonderful. Let’s pick up where we left off and talk about managing your pregnancy.”
I squeeze Luca’s hand. He answers with a light squeeze back.
Chapter Twenty Three
Luca
The house is so quiet I can hear the clock over the mantle counting off the seconds.
I sit on the edge of the sofa with the little cardstock sleeve open in my hands. Four glossy prints, gray on gray. In the silence, I hear the heartbeat again. The quick flutter that changes everything.
Our child.
I trace the edge of a print with my thumb, afraid to touch the image itself, as if I’ll smudge it and make it less real.
The first time I heard the sound of a baby’s heartbeat, it was in a different room with cheaper lights and a rip in the vinyl chair. Carlotta squeezed my fingers until the bones complained and then laughed at herself for it, tears already running because she was like that, all big feelings.
I remember back then, Lucia was just a grain of white in a black sea, and I was a young man pretending I knew everything about anything. The gel was too cold, the machine too loud, the nurse too brisk. None of it mattered once the flutter filled the room.
“È nostra,” she had whispered, like a secret she couldn’t contain. Ours. I didn’t let go of her hand until she had to get dressed.
With son Vito, he made himself known before we ever saw him in the world. He kicked so hard, Carlotta winced. She scolded him through her belly button and then laughed.
At the first appointment, he refused to give the tech a clean angle; all spine and stubbornness, making the whole room work for it. When he cried the first time, it was not quiet. It told the world to make space. He never did learn to whisper, and I love him for it.
With Nico, I thought I was prepared, him being our third. I wasn’t. The wonder didn’t shrink; it multiplied. He never stayed still on the screen, sliding away from the probe like he already hated being the center of attention.
Later, when he was born, he barely opened his mouth to cry before it was over. I remember standing in the kitchen at 3:00 inthe morning with him against my chest, the house asleep around us, steam fogging the window over the sink while water boiled for Carlotta’s tea. He fit under my jaw like a missing piece of the puzzle.
