His hand drifts lower, settling over my stomach.
“I can’t see it being anything else.”
A quiet breath leaves him, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t fully form. His gaze drops to where his hand rests, then lifts back to me again.
“And he’s mine,” he adds, “So I’m going to teach him everything I know.”
His thumb stills.
“A daughter…”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
“She’d never be out of my sight,” he admits quietly. “Not for a second. I’d lose my mind over her. The security we have in place would need to double. Triple.”
My gaze drifts past him before I can answer.
To the balcony doors—wide open.
The Los Angeles sky is impossibly blue, clean in a way that still feels unreal after everything. Warm air moves through the room,carrying the soft, citrus scent of the orange tree just beyond the terrace, bright and grounding all at once.
For a moment, I just breathe it in.
Then I smile at him.
Not because of what he said—but because of what I see when I look at him.
It comes back to me so vividly it almost steals my breath.
The sketch.
After our wedding.
Trey drawn the way I couldn’t stop seeing him—head thrown back, undone, utterly lost in me. The night sky above him scattered with stars like shattered diamonds, catching light in the dark.
Even on paper, he looked unreal.
Like something ascending to grace.
Beautiful in a way that shouldn’t exist in the same world as me.
An angel who somehow chose to stay. “I want to draw you,” I say softly.
My fingers curl slightly against my palm as the thought settles more firmly.
“Like this,” I add, my voice gentler now, certain in a way I don’t always get to be. “Right now. I want to capture it.” My eyes trace him again, slower this time.
“This happiness,” I admit, almost quieter. “I don’t want to forget it. I want something that holds it still for me. ”Trey’s response is immediate.
“Where do you want me?” he grins. “Exactly where you are right now. Don’t move.”
I don’t give him time to respond properly. I’m already up, crossing the room in quick, excited steps as I gather my sketch pad and pencils, my fingers moving with purpose as I pull everything I need together—the soft graphite set, the kneaded eraser, the sharpener that always rolls to the bottom of my bag.
When I turn back, he’s still exactly where I left him.
Which, for Trey, feels like a miracle in itself.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to strip completely?” he teases, mouth curling with that familiar grin. “I’ll be your Rose. You can be my Jack. But no pegging.”
