“Eli,” I say, pushing off the tree, already stepping forward.
Too late.
The branch snaps, dropping both kids to the ground in a tangle of limbs and curses that sound a little too much like me.
There’s a beat.
Then laughter.
“Again,” Jace says, already scrambling back to his feet.
“Maybe don’t break your neck this time,” Maddie adds dryly.
I stop where I am, watching as they dust themselves off and head right back for the same damn tree.
“They don’t listen,” I mutter.
Maddie huffs out a quiet laugh beside me. “They do. Just not to you.”
I glance at her.
She’s standing a few feet away, one hand resting low on her stomach, the other shading her eyes as she watches them. The light filters through the trees, catching in her hair, softening the edges of everything that used to feel sharp.
She looks…steady.
Grounded.
Like she belongs here in a way that still hits me harder than it should, even after all this time.
“You should sit,” I say.
Her head turns slowly, one brow lifting. “Here we go.”
“You’ve been on your feet all morning.”
“I’ve been standing,” she corrects.
“You’re eight months pregnant.”
“With one this time,” she says, like that makes it easier. “I think I can handle standing in the woods.”
I step closer anyway.
My hand finds her waist out of habit, sliding around to rest over the curve of her stomach, feeling the weight of it, the warmth of it, the life we built sitting right there under my palm.
“You’re not careful enough,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes, but she leans into me just slightly, like she always does.
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
“Or maybe,” she says, turning her head just enough to look at me, “you just like having an excuse to hover.”
My mouth curves.
“Maybe.”
