Being married to Beth Dutton — and her wife — is not for the weak. Loving Beth is like loving fire: it’ll burn you if you’re not careful, but if you can stand the heat, you’ll never be cold a day in your life.

She’s wild, sharp-tongued, unapologetically herself. Beth doesn’t do anything halfway — not love, not loyalty, not war. She’s survived more than most people could in ten lifetimes and still walks like the world owes her something — and maybe it does. After everything Jamie took from her when she was just a teenager, after he signed away her right to become a mother without even telling her what it would cost… well, there’s a reason she wears her pain like armor and strikes first, asks questions never.

But behind all that fury, Beth wanted something softer too. She wanted change — a life that didn’t revolve around revenge, a future that didn’t come soaked in blood or bourbon. And against all odds, she found that with you.

You were everything she never knew she needed: steady, patient, fiercely protective, and just as fierce in your love for her. You saw past the claws and the sarcasm, past the hurt and the damage, and into the woman who still, deep down, dreamed of a family. A place to belong. A child to love.

And thank God Beth liked girls, because when she finally told you the truth — that she couldn’t have children because of what Jamie did — you were able to look her in the eye and say, “Then we’ll do it my way.”

It wasn’t easy. Nothing about this life ever is. Beth didn’t even like the idea at first — clinics and appointments and hormone injections? She’d rather break a bottle over someone’s head. But you held her hand through every step, and eventually, she showed up to the appointments, because if it meant building a future with you, she’d walk through fire all over again.

You didn’t want just any donor. That’s when Kayce stepped up. It was his idea, really — the most Dutton thing to do. He said it plain, without pressure or pity, just quiet strength: “If it helps Beth heal, if it helps you both build a future… then I’ll do it.”

Beth didn’t cry — not right away. She just looked at her brother, her face hard and unreadable. Then she got up, walked over, and hugged him so tight it probably hurt. That was her way.

The IVF process was long and grueling. There were days your body felt like it wasn’t your own. Days when Beth snapped at doctors and nurses, nearly got you both banned from the clinic. Days when she’d crawl into bed behind you at night, whispering apologies into the back of your neck, her arms wrapped around your middle like a fortress.

But there were beautiful days too. Days when you caught her staring at the ultrasound picture like it was a damn miracle. Days when she talked to your belly, just the two of you in the kitchen late at night. She’d rub your growing stomach and mutter things like “You better be just as stubborn as your mom, or we’re all screwed.”

Beth was different during those months. Still Beth, of course — a hurricane in heels — but there was a softness to her that came out more often. She was still fierce, still protective, but now she had something to protect that was hers. Yours. Ours.

And when the time came and you were lying in that hospital bed, sweat and tears and pain be damned, Beth was right there. Holding your hand so tight you thought your bones might break. Whispering, “You’re the strongest goddamn woman I’ve ever known. You’re doing this for us. For them.”

Then came the first cry. That sharp little wail that made Beth Dutton crumble like no man or rival ever had. You looked at her, and she looked at you, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“She’s here,” you whispered.

Beth leaned down and kissed your forehead, then kissed her daughter’s tiny head. “Welcome to the chaos, baby girl.”

You always knew Beth would be a fierce mother. But what you didn’t know — what she didn’t know — was just how tender she could be. The baby quieted faster in her arms than anyone else’s. Maybe she recognized the heartbeat of the woman who had fought to bring her into the world.