My throat tightens as my cheeks heat. “I’m not?—”
“Are you uncomfortable? Or are you worried what I’ll think?”
I’ve given birth, for crying out loud. This conversation shouldn’t make me want to hide in the bathroom until he falls asleep. But it’s not because I’m uncomfortable—it’s because Aiden is looking at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.
The problem is that I don’t feel like it. Not on most days, but especially not when I’m this tired.
“The second one,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds.
“Chloe.” My name is barely a breath out of his mouth. “You never have to worry about that.”
There’s no hesitation in his hands when he smooths my shirt back up, exposing the stretch of skin I struggle with most. His fingers trace one line slowly, deliberately—like he’s memorizing it.
I hold my breath.
“These are…” He trails off, not searching for words, just chasing an emotion I wish I could understand. “These are beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
His words shouldn’t undo me, but they do.
Not because he said it—but because ofhowhe said it. How he touches them. Like they’re not flaws to be reassured away with cocoa butter and miracle products.
He’s reverent, like he’s handling a historical artifact. Proof of another life written into my skin.
“I didn’t really get time to feel any way about them,” I admit quietly.
But that’s not entirely true. I cried about them, more than I care to admit. For more reasons than I can even name.
No one was looking at me then, so it felt easier not to look at myself, either.
His eyes raise to mine. “We promised to be honest with each other. I can take whatever it is you need to say.”
The way his hand rests on my stomach railroads me with emotion. I can see a future, exactly like this, where he’s talking to a swollen belly, propped on his elbow, like it’s just another evening. Phoebe is next to him, adding her own commentary, eagerly suggesting names we’ll never use.
Another wound I’ve kept buried for eight long years.
“I always pictured it differently,” I say softly. “I won’t be so callous as to say he was repulsed, but I think it’s safe to say that he wasn’t a man who appreciated the miracle of pregnancy.”
Emotions flash across his face, and I admire the restraint he’s using not to say everything he’s feeling. It might wake the whole house.
Instead, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the biggest stretch mark beside my belly button. The place where Phoebe made her home for half the pregnancy because she preferred one side over the other.
The act is so intimate, I can’t breathe.
Somewhere in the walls, the heat shifts, settling deeper and warmer.
“I love these,” he murmurs against my skin. “You carried Phoebe. Just like you carry everything else. You’re a warrior.” He gazes up at me, his lips curling into a soft smile. “My wife, the warrior.”
“You’ve got to stop being so complimentary,” I say, even though I’m terrified of how much I want him to keep going. “You might let it go to my head.”
He scoots further up the bed, so we’re almost eye to eye.
“That’s a deal breaker, Chloe. I can’t stop telling you how beautiful you are.” He swallows. “Or that I love you.”
Emotion lodges in my throat. “You what?” I whisper.
“Love you. I don’t think I ever stopped.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess,” I say through a watery smile. “Because I never stopped loving you either.”
