Page 156 of Jayson
I nod. Then cross the kitchen slowly and place his hand over my stomach.
It takes him a second.
Then his eyes widen. “Wait?—?”
I nod again.
And he sinks to his knees right there on the cold tile, pressing his forehead to my belly like it’s the holiest place on Earth.
When he looks up, there are tears in his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d live long enough to deserve this.”
I touch his jaw. “You deserve this,” I tell him. “Wedeserve this.”
Later, we sit on the porch swing, blanket over our legs, stars flickering into existence above us. The air smells like salt and garden soil. Honeysuckle clings to the edge of the railing, and somewhere off in the distance, the wind howls against trees like they’re whispering secrets we’re not meant to hear.
Same sky. Different season.
His fingers thread through mine, warm and sure. A little rough from working on the new wing of the house, but gentle as ever when he holds me.
He leans in, breath brushing my ear. “Will you marry me again?”
I turn to him, brow lifted. “Didn’t we already do that? Twice?”
“This time’s different,” he murmurs, voice low. “This time we’ll have a special guest.”
His hand drifts to my stomach, resting lightly over the barely-there curve neither of us can see yet—but both of us feel.
I smile, tears catching at the edges of my lashes. “She or he won’t remember it.”
“She or he will feel it,” he grins. “Like the stars. You don’t need to know their names to know they’re watching.”
We fall into silence, our eyes lifting to the sky—ink-dark and endless, freckled with constellations. The kind you don’t get to see in the city. Out here, they’re vivid. Sharp. Like someone pressed diamonds into velvet.
“There,” I say, pointing up. “Do you see Lyra?”
“The harp,” he nods. “That one I remember.”
“Lila,” I say quietly. “Your sister.”
His fingers squeeze mine. “Always watching.”
I scan the sky again. “And there’s Cassiopeia. The queen on her throne. Upside down most of the time, but still holding court.”
“You,” he says, grinning into my temple.
“And Orion,” I whisper. “The hunter. Belt, shoulders, knees.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “That one used to feel like me. Before.”
“Still does,” I say. “But now you hunt for peace. Not blood.”
He swallows hard.
I rest my head against his shoulder. “Do you think she’ll grow up knowing the constellations?”
He nods. “She’ll know all of them. I’ll teach her. From this porch. Wrapped in blankets and too much hot chocolate.”
“I want our child to know what it means to look up and feel held.”
