"You look comfortable," he says, settling onto the couch beside me.
"I look like a whale."
"You look beautiful." He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead, then my lips, then—bending lower—the swell of my belly. "Both of you do."
I run my fingers through his hair as he rests his head against my stomach.
This has become our thing—quiet moments where he talks to the baby, tells him about the world he's going to be born into.
It started as a joke, something I teased him about, but now I find myself looking forward to it.
There's something unbearably sweet about watching this hardened soldier whisper promises to my belly.
"Hello, little man," RJ murmurs against my skin. "It's your da. Again. Your mam thinks I'm ridiculous for talking to you so much, but I don't care. You're going to know my voice before you're even born."
The baby kicks in response—a solid thump against RJ's cheek that makes him laugh.
"He agrees with me," he says.
"He has hiccups. It's not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing. He's communicating." Another kick, stronger this time. "See? He's saying 'I love you, Da. You're my favorite.'"
"He's saying 'stop squishing me, I'm trying to sleep.'"
RJ grins up at me, his gray eyes soft with a happiness I still can't quite believe is real.
Three months ago, he was a Brotherhood soldier with no ties, no roots, no future beyond the next mission.
Now he's my husband, lying on our couch in our home, talking to our son.
Our son.
We found out two weeks ago.
The ultrasound tech pointed to the screen with a knowing smile and said, "Looks like you're having a boy."
RJ went completely still beside me—frozen, barely breathing—and then he laughed.
Actually laughed, this full-bodied sound of pure joy that I'd never heard from him before.
A boy. We're having a boy.
"Have you thought any more about names?" I ask, running my fingers through his hair.
He groans. "We need to decide. He can't just be 'little man' forever."
"I don't know, I kind of like it. 'Little Man Malone.' Has a ring to it."
"Very funny." He shifts so he's lying beside me, his hand resting on my belly, thumb stroking lazy circles. "What about Cillian? It's traditional. Strong. My grandfather's name."
"Cillian Malone." I test it out, feeling how it sits on my tongue. "It's nice. Very Irish."
"That's the point. He's half Irish—he should have a name that reflects that."
"But what about something Nordic? My family has traditions too." I've been thinking about this more than I want to admit. My whole life, I've been surrounded by names like Runes and Tor, Revna and Dalla. Names that carry weight, that connect us to something ancient and powerful. Names that mean something. I want our son to have that too.
"What were you thinking?"
