"...Morning."
Zach finally hits pause —thank God— and the room goes blessedly quiet except for Sammy babbling into his toy and patting Zach's jaw like he's inspecting his father's bone structure.
I reach out.
"Give me my baby."
Zach shifts, settling beside me on the sectional, the cushion dipping under his weight. He hands Sammy over carefully, like he's passing me something holy, and my entire body softens the moment our son collapses happily into my arms.
"By the way," Zach says, brushing a thumb over Sammy's curls, "he's already eaten. And changed. And yes, before you ask — I made breakfast."
I blink at him. "You... made breakfast?"
He lifts a brow. "That tone is insulting, Mrs. Westbrook."
"No, babe, I meant you should've woken me up. I could have helped," I giggle, because honestly, what is this man doing being competent so early in the morning? "You didn't have to turn into Super Dad before breakfast."
He gives me those stupid soft eyes that make my heart fold in half.
"You needed sleep," he murmurs. "I wasn't about to drag you out of bed. You already carry so much every day. And I've been gone more than I've been home—planes, hotels, back-to-back practices—while you handle everything here without a single complaint."
His hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers finding that spot that turns my spine to warm honey. My shoulders instantly loosen.
"I just wanted you to rest. You deserve that. You deserve more than what I've been able to give you during the season. And now that it's over?" His thumb sweeps gently across my skin. "I get to make it up to you. All of it."
My throat pinches.
Every time he talks like this, like I'm the center of his universe and he's just orbiting me with devotion... my heart goes and does a full gymnastics routine.
"Zach," I murmur, brushing Sammy's soft curls off his forehead, "I don't mind doing all of it. Honestly. Taking care of the house, running after this little tornado, growing another human—none of it feels like a burden to me."
I give a small, sheepish laugh.
"It's a lot, sure. But it doesn't drown me. It... fills me. I like being the one who makes this place feel like a home. I like being here with him. I don't wake up feeling overwhelmed—I wake up feeling needed. And that feels good in a way I didn't expect."
"God, I'm so lucky to have you as my wife. You have no idea."
Something warm unfurls in my chest—slow and soft, like a sunrise widening behind my ribs.
Sammy wiggles in my lap, making a determined little grunt — his"put me down, woman"signal — so I set him on the floor.
He immediately toddles toward his toy box, wobbling like a baby penguin on a mission.
Zach slides closer, draping an arm over my shoulders while his other hand curves around my bump, stroking it with this reverent, absent-minded tenderness that makes my chest tighten.
Five months in, and he touches my belly like it's the first time every time.
Like he still can't believe there's another tiny heartbeat in there that belongs to us.
Yesterday we found out she's a girl. We spent the whole night crying, laughing, arguing over names, and imagining Sammy as a big brother—gentle and protective, just like his dad.
For a moment, we just sit like that—quiet, content, watching our son hold a plastic truck upside down like it's a philosophical puzzle.
Then Zach speaks.
"Do you ever... miss working?"
I don't even hesitate. I shake my head immediately.
