It's such a small thing.
An afternoon with a friend, talking about baby stuff.
But for me, it feels like a miracle.
It happens on a Sunday morning.
I'm lying in bed, Garrett still asleep beside me, watching the pale winter light filter through the curtains.
It's early—maybe seven—and the clubhouse is quiet.
Peaceful.
No engines rumbling, no music thumping, no voices echoing through the halls.
Just the soft sound of Garrett's breathing and the distant hum of the highway.
My hand rests on my stomach, like it always does now.
I've gotten rounder in the past few weeks—actually starting to look pregnant instead of just bloated.
My shirts are getting tight.
Tildie keeps threatening to take me shopping for maternity clothes.
And then I feel it.
A flutter.
Low in my belly, like butterflies trapped under my skin.
Like something inside me is stretching, shifting, making itself known.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
There it is again. A tiny movement. A nudge. A kick.
"Garrett." My voice comes out strangled, barely a whisper. "Garrett, wake up."
He's alert instantly, years of club life training him to go from asleep to combat-ready in seconds.
His hand reaches for the gun on the nightstand before his eyes are even fully open. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I grab his hand, pulling it away from the weapon, and press it against my stomach. "Wait. Just wait."
He blinks at me, confused, still half-asleep. "Van, what?—"
"Shh. Just feel."
We lie there in silence, barely breathing.
His palm is warm against my skin, his fingers splayed wide, covering almost the entire swell of my belly.
The room is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat.
Can hear his.
And then?—
