The nausea fades somewhere around week fourteen, like a switch flipping in my body. One day I wake up and realize I’m hungry instead of queasy, energetic instead of bone-tired. My skin glows. My breasts are fuller, heavier, tender in a way that makes me hyper-aware of them. My belly has a gentle curve now—not obvious to strangers, but unmistakable to me. To us.
I feel amazing.
Which makes the quiet worry I carry feel even more ridiculous.
I’m in our suite at the clubhouse, standing in front of the mirror, tugging down the hem of my shirt. It doesn’t hide the curve the way it used to. Not that I want it to. It just… surprises me every time I see it.
Onyx sits on the edge of the bed, boots off, cut draped over the chair. He’s scrolling on his phone, his jaw tight in concentration. He’s been like this lately. Present and affectionate, but distant in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. And I can’t help but be worried. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, but part of me is scared that the reality of our relationship doesn’t match up with the fantasy he harbored for years.
“Everything okay?” I ask lightly.
He looks up, his expression softening instantly. “Yeah. Just work stuff.”
I nod, because that’s what I always do. Everything between us is good. He checks on me constantly. Makes sure I eat. Makes sure I rest. His hand finds my lower back without thinking, his touch grounding and warm.
But in the evenings, he’s been busy. Meetings that run late. Projects he won’t talk about. He comes up to the room long after I’ve already fallen asleep, slides in beside me quietly, careful not to wake me.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Clubs have ebbs and flows. Men get distracted. Pregnancy hormones are a liar.
Still, the thought creeps in when I’m alone. Maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe the reality of a baby—of forever—has finally landed and it’s heavier than he expected. Nothing more has been said about our wedding. I know I wanted to wait until after the baby was born, but like our haphazard, spur-of-the-moment engagement, it’s almost as though it’s slipped his mind.
I push it aside. He hasn’t given me a reason not to trust him.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, standing up. “You wanna go for a ride?”
I blink. “A ride?”
He grins, it’s that familiar crooked smile that still knocks the air out of my lungs. “Yeah. Thought it might be nice.”
Excitement flares bright and immediate. “Really? I mean—yeah. Yes.”
I know I won’t be able to ride comfortably forever. Soon I’ll be too big. The idea that he’s suggesting it touches something in me.
“I should change,” I say, glancing at my leggings.
He shakes his head. “We’re not going far.”
Something about the way he says it makes my pulse pick up, but I don’t question it. I grab my jacket and follow him downstairs.
It’s not long before we’re on the road. The bike hums beneath us, familiar and steady. I press my hands to his sides, resting my cheek between his shoulder blades, breathing him in. Leather and oil and Onyx. The world narrows to the road unfurling ahead of us, the wind brushing past, the steady rhythm of motion.
It takes a few minutes before I realize where we’re heading.
My stomach tightens.
The turnoff is unmistakable, even now. The woods start here, the trees that were once my protection against the outside world, instead of hiding my home—my grandfather’s cabin—now surround the remains.
I haven’t been back since the night the flames took it. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the blackened bones, the scar burned into the land. I start to lean forward, about to tell Onyx to turn around, when something catches my eye through the trees.
Wood.
Clean lines. Familiar angles.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
He slows the bike, rolling to a stop at the edge of the clearing, and for a second I can’t move. The cabin stands there like a memory made solid. The wooden shingles catching the light, the porch railing just where it should be, smoke curling lazily from a chimney that shouldn’t exist. Its door painted in that familiar shade of red.
It looks… whole.
