I think about the gossips in town, and some options for overwriting their first impressions of Hope. I hate to think of her feeling uncomfortable because of that chatter.
I think about Bellamy going to school in town in a year or two. Growing up and going to the high school where I found myself an outsider when I moved here.
For years, I wanted to come back here to pummel those who made fun of us, to make them respect us.
Now I know how fucking happy I can be without a care in the world for their opinions.
I want to raise Bellamy to be as strong as it took me thirty-two years to be.
Hope squirms a little against me.
“You’re okay.” I kiss the top of her head.
She settles down again.
I don’t need to send her to bed just yet, I tell myself. We can stay like this a little longer.
And then I close my eyes for what I swear is only a second.
I wake up because something warm is pressed against my throat.
For a brief, confused moment, I don’t know where I am. The light is wrong, a cool grey wash on the ceiling, not long shadows anymore. My neck has a crick in it from the arm of the couch. And there’s a weight across my chest that has no business being there.
Then it all comes back, and I can’t be mad about what’s happened.
I don’t open my eyes all the way. I let them slit open just enough to take stock, and what I see nearly ruins me.
Hope is draped half across me. Sometime in the night we slid sideways, and now I’m stretched along the length of the couch with my back against the cushions and she’s tucked in front of me, my arms wrapped tight around her.
And my bottom hand is splayed low across her belly, under her shirt, against the warm, bare skin just below her navel.
I would never have put it there awake. But my sleeping self knew exactly where it wanted to be, and it found her, and it stayed.
Don’t move.
It’s not quite dawn—maybe five, maybe a little after. The house is silent, and I’m listening for something, anything, a sign that I have to wake Hope up and break this perfect spell. Across the hall, Bellamy isn’t moving yet. Luna won’t be up for a while.
Greedily, I memorize every soft, warm point of contact, because I want to remember this for the rest of my life.
Her hair, tangled, tucked under my chin. I can smell her shampoo and underneath it, just her, warm and clean.
Her back, flush against my chest, rising and falling with my breathing, because somewhere in the night our rhythms synced.
Her ass cradles my morning wood, and I’m sure she’d be mortified if she realized how firmly she’s wedged herself in here, as if on a subconscious level she knows she belongs in this carved-out space in front of my body.
And in front of her, my hand, possessively holding her and the child inside.
I close my eyes again.
Her belly is so flat under my palm. There’s nothing there yet to feel, no swell, no kick, nothing. But I know. And my hand knows. And somewhere in the night, my sleeping self made a decision on behalf of my waking self, and there’s no taking it back now.
Mine.
Her. The baby. Bellamy. Mine to stand between them and the world. Mine to keep safe. Mine to wake up to, if she’ll let me.
She stirs. She goes still. I can feel her waking up, can feel her taking her own inventory the way I just did. Feeling where she ends and I begin, thick and aching for her.
Her breathing changes. Quickens, just a little.
