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"I've got you," he whispers against my mouth. "Both of you."

On Sunday morning, the kitchen fills with the scent of blueberry pancakes and warm September sunshine. Eight-year-old Kayla sits at the island in her favorite purple t-shirt, kicking her feet against the stool while happily pouring syrup over her plate.

Brock stands beside me, his hand resting warm on the small of my back.

"Kayla, sweetheart," he says, setting a glass of milk next to her plate. "Megan and I have something exciting to tell you."

Kayla looks up, syrup on her chin, her brown eyes darting between us. "Did we get the hamster?"

Brock chuckles, shaking his head. "No hamster. Something much better." He looks at me, squeezing my waist gently.

I lean on the counter across from her, meeting her gaze. "In a few months, our family is going to get a little bigger. I'm having a baby, Kayla. You're going to be a big sister."

Kayla's fork stops halfway to her mouth.

She stares at us for two silent seconds. Then her eyes widen into giant saucers.

"A baby?" she gasps, dropping her fork onto the plate with a loud clatter. "A real baby? In your tummy?"

"In my tummy," I say, laughing with relief.

She scrambles off the stool and runs around the island, throwing her arms around my waist. "I'm a big sister! Can I teach them how to draw? And can I show them the swing set? Daddy, can we get a pink blanket if it's a girl?"

Brock lets out a deep, booming laugh and scoops her up with one arm while keeping his other firmly around my shoulders. "You can teach them everything you know, monkey. You're going to be the best big sister in the world."

Kayla beams, wrapping one arm around his neck and reaching out to pat my stomach with her small hand. "Don't worry, baby," she tells my belly solemnly. "I have lots of books to read to you."

The weeks that follow settle into a steady, beautiful routine.

The first trimester brings mild morning nausea, but Brock handles it like a man on a mission. He spends his evenings reading pregnancy books on his tablet, researching car seats, and sitting on the living room rug gently rubbing lotion into my feet while I grade second-grade spelling tests on the sofa.

We share the news with our families that same week. Cora screams so loudly over the phone that I have to pull it away from my ear, immediately claiming the role of godmother. Brock's mother cries happy tears and starts mailing handmade baby blankets before the week ends. At school, Principal Harrison congratulates me with a warm handshake, assuring me my classroom will be waiting whenever I'm ready to return after the baby arrives.

Through September and October, we talk about nursery colors, furniture, and whether we want to know the baby's sex before the birth. We decide to wait and be surprised. Brock measures the guest room and sketches possible layouts on graph paper, while I browse online for cribs and changing tables, bookmarking favorites to discuss together.

By late October, the guest room is cleared out. Brock spends an entire Saturday afternoon assembling a solid oak crib, his sleeves rolled up, focused and determined while I sit on the carpet folding tiny clothes into the dresser drawers. The walls are freshly painted a soft sage green, and a rocking chair sits in the corner near the window.

Late on a Sunday evening in late fall, the house is quiet. Kayla is asleep down the hall, and the master bedroom is lit only by the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror near the closet, wearing one of Brock's soft gray t-shirts. I turn to the side, lifting the hem slightly. My belly has grown into a noticeable curve, round and firm beneath my navel.

I look at my reflection and think briefly of the woman who once believed she needed a mask to be wanted. I don't need that anymore.

A pair of strong arms slide around my waist from behind.

Brock pulls me flush against his chest, his chin resting lightly on the top of my head as his dark eyes meet mine in the mirror. He doesn't say a word at first. Slowly, his large hands slide down the fabric of the shirt, spreading wide and warm over the swell of my stomach.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs, his deep voice rumbling against my back.

I lean back against his solid warmth, resting my hands over his and lacing our fingers together across my belly.

"About how much I love this life," I whisper. "And how much I love you."

Brock turns his head, pressing a lingering kiss to the curve of my neck. His hands tighten gently over mine. "I love you, Megan. Always."

He turns me in his arms, his mouth finding mine in a slow, deep kiss that makes my pulse quicken. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with warmth and desire.

"Come to bed," he murmurs against my lips.