The sound of running water fills the en-suite as I step inside, my tie already loosened, the weight of the day settling deep into my bones. The dim glow of the lights casts soft shadows through the steam, turning the room hazy, intimate. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing it in.

And then I see them.

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They stand beneath the steady stream, their back to me, their silhouette blurred by the fog. Their body, softer now, fuller with our child, holds my gaze captive in a way that still steals the air from my lungs. One leg crosses loosely over the other, arms draped protectively over their belly. It’s instinctive, that touch—absentminded and reverent all at once.

I could stare at them for the rest of my life and never get tired of the view.

As if sensing me there, they glance over their shoulder.

Their eyes—dark, tired, but warm—lock onto mine. There’s exhaustion in them, yes. The long day, the weight they carry, the ache of growing life. But there’s something else too. Something softer. Something that belongs only to me.

A slow, knowing smile curves their lips.

And then they do it.

They lift their hand and make that small, unmistakable gesture. The little curl of their fingers.

Come here.

Mine.

I exhale slowly through my nose, my chest tightening in that familiar way. My body is already moving before my brain catches up. I tug off my shirt, unbuckle my belt, let the day fall to the tile at my feet. None of it matters. None of it compares.

They don’t look away. Their expression stays calm, expectant. Certain. As if they know there isn’t a single force in this world strong enough to keep me from them when they call like that.

The moment I step under the warm spray, they melt into me.

Their hands press against my chest, warm and damp, their forehead resting there for just a second. They let out a quiet sigh—deep, satisfied, the kind that tells me they’ve been holding it in all day.

Waiting.

“For you,” I murmur softly, brushing my lips against their temple.

“You’re late,” they say, voice edged with that familiar pregnancy sharpness, though their arms tighten around me anyway.

I slide a hand down their back, slow and steady, grounding them against me. “Traffic.”

A quiet huff. “Liar. You were probably terrifying someone in your office.”

I smirk faintly. “Maybe.”

They tilt their head back, looking up at me through damp lashes. The steam clings to their skin, to their hair, and I smooth it back gently. Their lips part just slightly.

“Kiss me,” they whisper.

My hand slides to the back of their neck, fingers tangling lightly at the nape as I tilt their head the rest of the way. I press my lips to theirs—slow, unhurried, like I have all the time in the world.

They hum softly into the kiss, their body molding against mine, warm and familiar and perfect. One of their hands drifts between us, resting over their belly again, and I cover it with my own. The steady reminder of what we’ve made together pulses beneath my palm.

Their moods will shift again soon. Maybe they’ll get feisty. Maybe emotional. Maybe they’ll cry over nothing and everything all at once.

I’ll be here.

I’ll always step into the steam when they reach for me like that.