Hormones.
The word lands heavily. I stop mid-breath. She’s not looking at me, not directly, but her reflection is hesitant, hopeful, and terrified all at once. I step closer.
“Alma,” I say gently. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”
Her lips twitch, the smallest smile breaking through. She doesn’t say yes. She just lets me see it. The softness in her face. The nervous glow I somehow missed.
“Neta?” I whisper, my chest tightening.
She turns toward me and presses her hand to her stomach.
“Yes,” she breathes. “We’re having a baby.”
My knees give out before my mind can catch up, and I drop to them in front of her. The room feels like it’s tilted on an axis.
“A baby?” I whisper, pressing my mouth to the warm skin of her belly, my throat thick. “Hi, baby. This is your dad talking. I love you already.”
I look up, and the way she’s smiling at me, the tears gathering in her eyes, nearly undoes me. She’s perfect. More than perfect. I kiss her stomach again, reverent this time, then lower my voice and add, stiff and robotic, “Luke, I am your father.”
“Estás loco.” Alma laughs, shaking her head.
“Por ti.”
_______
My breath stalls when I see Alma walking towards me. She’s wearing a gold bridesmaid dress, her hair pinned up with flowers, and long pearl earrings grazing her bare shoulders.
“You look beautiful, Kitten.”
“It’s the dress.” Her cheeks warm and turn a soft pink.
“It’s you.”
“Ready?” she whispers, flashing a nervous smile.
“I’ve never been more ready.”
We take the first step together. The aisle stretches long, red roses are scattered across the floor, and a soft melody guides us to the altar. Alma’s fingers tighten around my arm the moment all eyes fall on us, and fuck, that does something to me. I’m protective. Proud. Territorial. All of it. Halfway down, she glances up at me. Her big brown eyes shine in the light.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs under her breath.
I don’t look away.
“Can’t help it.”
She tries not to smile and fails, but her eyes stay focused on our steps. That tiny curve of her mouth hits me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. There’s this warmth inside me, this pure feeling of contentment that’s impossible to contain. The kind of happiness I never thought I’d get to feel.
Not after everything I’ve done.
Not after everything I’ve lost.
But here she is. Walking beside me. Carrying our future inside her.
We reach the end of the aisle, and Alma lets go of me, fingers sliding reluctantly from my arm. I pull her back and place a kiss on her forehead.
“After this, you’re mine for the rest of the night,” I whisper against her temple.
Her breath catches, her lashes lowering. She walks away, and I take my place next to Adrian, who, even at the altar, seems to radiate a lack of emotion. His expression is hard as he waits to see his bride. Thalia walks down the aisle next, holding her nephew PJ. It was the only groomsman Silas would allow her to walk with who wasn’t him.
