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I wipe my face, splash cold water over my cheeks, and take a steadying breath. I could blurt it out the second Brock walks through the door, but I want to give him something he'll remember forever.

By late afternoon, the house smells like cinnamon and slow-cooked roast. Kayla is at a classmate's birthday party for a few hours, giving us a stretch of quiet before Brock picks her up for dinner.

The front door clicks open just past four.

My pulse jumps. I stand in the kitchen, smoothing the hem of my cream cable-knit sweater as I hear Brock set down his keys and hang his jacket.

"Megan?" his voice calls down the hall, deep and resonant.

"In here," I call back, keeping my tone light.

He walks into the kitchen, wearing dark jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. The hard, focused lines of his face—the sharpness he carries when handling trials and firm negotiations—soften the second his dark eyes find mine.

"Hey," he murmurs. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, his large hands settling on my hips to draw me against his chest. He bends his head, kissing me with a slow, thorough warmth that tastes like the cool air drifting through the open kitchen window. When he pulls back, his brow creases with immediate attention. "You look flushed. Feeling alright?"

The instinctive protectiveness in his voice makes my heart swell.

"I'm wonderful," I say softly. "Come into the living room. I have something for you."

He arches a dark brow, smiling slightly. "A present?"

"Come on."

I lead him by the hand to the sofa near the fireplace. On the coffee table sits a small box wrapped in hunter-green paper with an ivory ribbon. Brock sits beside me, looking at the box and then at me, curiosity settling in his eyes.

"Open it," I whisper.

His capable fingers untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

Inside the box, nestled in white tissue paper, is a tiny heather-gray onesie with a small embroidered owl across the chest—the exact twin of the chipped mug he placed in his cabinet the day I moved in. Tucked beneath the onesie, also inside the box, is the digital pregnancy test, the word PREGNANT still clear on its screen.

Brock freezes.

The air goes still. His gaze locks onto the tiny onesie, drops to the screen, and stays there. For several long seconds, the man who never hesitates, who always commands every room he enters, sits completely motionless.

"Brock?" I whisper.

When he looks up, his dark eyes are thick with unshed tears. His jaw tightens as he tries to swallow past the knot in his throat.

"Megan..." His voice is rough, cracking slightly. He reaches out, his fingers trembling as they brush the edge of the cotton onesie. "Is this real?"

"It's real," I say, fresh tears stinging my eyes. "We're having a baby."

A ragged breath tears from his chest. He sets the box aside and pulls me into his lap in one swift, overwhelming motion.

His arms lock around my waist and back, holding me so tight I can feel the hard, rapid pound of his heartbeat against my chest. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling shakily, his broad shoulders trembling under my palms.

"Megan," he rasps against my skin, his voice thick with emotion.

"I'm here," I murmur, tangling my fingers in his dark hair.

He pulls back just enough to cup my face in his large, warm hands. His thumbs sweep away my tears, his gaze searching every inch of my features with fierce intensity.

"You're okay?" he asks, his voice low and urgent. "You're happy with this? Tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything."

"I'm so happy," I tell him, leaning into his hands. "I want this, Brock. I want our baby."

A slow, tender exhale leaves him. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm against my lips, before his hand slides down over my ribs and comes to rest flat and heavy against my lower stomach. His palm is warm through my sweater, his touch steady and protective.