"You're hovering," I tell him quietly.
"I'm being attentive." He doesn't even have the grace to look apologetic. "You're six months pregnant. You need proper nutrition. I'm making sure you get it."
I roll my eyes but don't argue. We both know fighting him on this is pointless.
Dimitri and Pyotr talk business—shipments, territories, problems I don't fully understand and don't particularly want to. I catch Anya's eye across the table and she gives me a small, knowing smile.
When the plates are cleared, Anya follows me to the kitchen while I make coffee.
The kitchen is warm from the stove, smelling of coffee and the lingering scent of roasted chicken. I measure grounds into the French press while Anya leans against the counter, watching me with those knowing eyes.
"You're happy," she says. Not a question.
"I am." I touch my belly automatically, feeling Katya's small movements. Like tiny bubbles popping under my skin. "Really happy."
"No regrets?"
I pour hot water over the coffee grounds, watch the steam rise. "He forced me. Claimed me. Took away every choice I had."
Anya doesn't flinch. Just waits.
"But I chose him back." I meet her eyes. "Somewhere along the way, I chose this."
She reaches out, touches my belly. Under her palm, Katya kicks—a solid thump that makes us both smile.
"It's a girl?"
"Yes. Katya."
"Beautiful name." She pulls her hand back. "He's going to be obsessive."
"He's already obsessive about everything. This won't be any different."
"It'll only get worse." She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "But she'll have him wrapped around her tiny finger. You both will."
***
After they leave—hugs and promises to visit again soon—I find myself drawn to the nursery at the end of the hall.
Pyotr repainted it himself the day after we found out the gender. Wouldn't let anyone else touch it. The walls are soft pink now, the furniture white and pristine. A mobile hangs over the crib—tiny stars and moons that catch the lamplight. The stuffed wolf he bought sits on the shelf, its gray fur impossibly soft.
Everything is ready. Waiting. Perfect.
"Still nesting?"
I turn to find him in the doorway, jacket and tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms.
"Can't help it." I adjust the wolf for probably the tenth time today, making sure it faces just right. "Everything has to be perfect for her."
He crosses the room, his hands settling on my belly from behind. The baby kicks immediately against his palms. She always does this, like she knows it's her daddy touching.
"She knows you," I say softly.
"Of course she does. I talk to her every night." His breath is warm against my ear. "Tell her how beautiful her mama is. How perfect she's going to be. How much I already love her."
I lean back into his solid warmth, his hands spanning my swollen belly. For a moment we just stand there in the pink-walled room, in the quiet, feeling our daughter move between us.
Then he's turning me around, lifting me despite my protests.
