Page 3 of Wild Then Wed
Julia made a soft noise at that. “God help us.”
“She’s getting big,” I said, resting my hand over her stomach. “Feels like you’re smuggling a small linebacker in there. Maybe two.”
She gave a soft smile. “She kicks the most when she can hear you.”
My throat tightened, and for a second, everything just…paused.
Fire was crackling somewhere down the hall in the fireplace. The lavender walls looked less ridiculous than I expected. Julia’s head rested on my shoulder. Her hand on our baby. My tools scattered like I’d forgotten I was supposed to be doing something other than falling in love with all of it.
She turned her head to look at me, one brow raised. “You think we’re actually ready for this? Raising a small human and not screwing it up monumentally?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But I’m glad I get to screw it up with you.”
She huffed out a breath, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You know she’s going to hate us both one day, right?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“She’ll probably need therapy.”
“I’m already accounting for it.”
There was a beat of silence. Then she nudged her nose against my jaw. “I’m glad I get to screw it up with you, too.”
She reached out and tugged on the edge of my shirt until I leaned in and kissed her. Her lips met mine with the quiet certainty that came from years of knowing exactly how I kissed—how I always tilted my head the same way, how I slowed down when I wanted it to last.
I kissed her like I didn’t care that my knees ached from kneeling on hardwood. Or that I’d probably have to rebuild this whole damn crib because I’d lost track of what piece went where.
Her mouth was certain, gentle, and familiar in the way home feels when you’ve been gone too long. She made a low sound when my hand found her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of the shirt—myshirt—until they landed on the bare curve of her belly. Warm. Full. Alive.
She inhaled against me, her breath catching as our lips moved slowly—no urgency, no heat. Just this quiet, reverent wanting. My forehead dropped to hers when we finally broke for air, her palm resting over the back of my neck, thumb tracing lazy circles there.
I was already leaning in to kiss her again when she whispered against my mouth, “You better not fuck up that crib, by the way.”
I smiled into her lips. “No faith in me?”
“Zero,” she murmured, brushing her nose against mine. “But I love you anyway.”
I kissed her again—deeper this time—my thumb still stroking over the place where our daughter was growing beneath my hand. And I didn’t say it, but I thought it.
I’d build a hundred cribs—break every piece and start again—just to keep this. Just to keep her.
She pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her lips brushing against mine, smirking just a little. “You’re so in love with me.”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“I am,” I breathed, the words catching between her lips and mine. “I’m totally fucked.”
She laughed.
And I didn’t know it back then.
I didn’t know it would echo through this room long after she was gone. That I’d hate the smell of cinnamon after this night. That I’d stand here months later, palms flat against the lavender wall, begging the silence to give me something—any piece of her—back.
I didn’t know we were already counting down. That time was running out quietly, cruelly, right under my feet.
I thought we had more nights like this. More time. More everything. But I was wrong.
Because I finished the crib.
