Rick stood at the sink, washing a single glass, watching the water run clear. His hands moved with a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness. The mission debrief, the usual bureaucratic tinnitus from Waller, was still a faint buzz in the back of his skull. But here, in the quiet hum of the refrigerator, in the soft glow of the brass floor lamp, it all fell away.

He turned, leaning against the counter, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

You were sprawled in the oversized armchair, a book tented on the glorious swell of your belly. You were his latest and most vital mission, this creation of a peace he’d only ever fought for from the outside.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He walked over, his socked feet silent on the hardwood. He came to a stop beside the couch, looking down at you.

You looked up, and that smile spread across your face. “Hey, soldier.”

He sank onto the couch beside you, the cushions dipping under his weight. Carefully, he lifted your legs and draped them over his thighs.

“How’s the passenger today?” he asked, his eyes dropping to your stomach. His hand found the bare skin of your ankle, his thumb rubbing slow circles.

“Kicking like a future placekicker for the Commanders,” you sighed, but it was a contented sound. You took his free hand and placed it high on your belly, right where the curve was most pronounced. “Right here. Feel.”

He waited, his entire being focused on the palm of his hand. For a moment, there was just the firm, warm roundness. Then it came: a solid, rolling push against his hand. A tiny, insistent pressure from the inside. A whole person, practicing.

“Jesus,” he breathed, the word reverent. He’d felt it before, dozens of times, but it never got old. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the fabric over the spot. “Hey, champ. Easy on your mom, okay? She’s running the show.”

He felt you run your fingers through his hair, a slow, soothing motion. He stayed there for a moment, his face pressed against you, breathing in the scent of you. When he sat up, his eyes were suspiciously bright. He blamed the low light.

“You hungry?” he asked, clearing his throat. “I could make those weird pickle and peanut butter sandwiches you like.”