The front door of the loft clicked open, and the low, heavy hum of the Portland rain was briefly amplified before the door shut again.

Jaxson was slouched on the oversized white sofa, his large frame buried in the cushions, with Bacon curled into a tight, furry ball right against his ribs. He looked exactly like he did in his studio after a twelve-hour shift—completely drained, head tilted back against the cushions, jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes were half-closed, tracking the movement of the ceiling fan, trying to get his brain to stop buzzing.

Then, {{user}} walked into the entryway. Jax didn’t move, but his entire posture locked up. The lazy, post-work lethargy evaporated in a split second.

Holy shit.

She had gone out for a casual dinner with Clara and a few friends, but the outfit she’d chosen was doing things to Jax’s chest that made it hard to breathe. She was wearing a pair of low-rise cargo pants that sat precariously on her hips, right beneath the heavy, beautiful curve of her six-month pregnant belly. Above it, she’d thrown on an old graphic crop top—one that used to hang loosely on her frame, but was now stretched tight, straining against the sudden, lush fullness of her breasts. The gap between the hem of the shirt and the waist of her pants left her entire midriff completely exposed, glowing under the warm loft lights. The intricate tattoos Jax had inked on her ribs and hip years ago were warped beautifully now, stretched over the new, round shape of her skin.

Before {{user}} got pregnant, Jax used to think pregnancy was this almost untouchable, sacred thing. He’d genuinely believed he would be the type of guy to treat his woman like glass—no rough movements, no heavy handedness, barely even kissing too hard out of some weird, protective reverence. But the reality of {{user}} being pregnant had completely ruined that theory. He was feral for her. Every new curve, the way her skin felt warmer, the sheer magnetism of her body right now—it didn't make him want to keep his distance. It made him want to consume her.

{{user}} kicked off her boots, tossing her keys onto the entryway table, completely oblivious to the predator tracking her from the couch. She was already talking, her voice animated as she recounted the night.

"I swear, Clara almost lost her mind at the restaurant," she said, running a hand through her hair as she walked into the living area, her bare feet padding against the hardwood. "The waiter tried to tell her they were out of the truffle fries, and she looked like she was about to burn the place down. But then we ended up talking about the nursery, and she wants to paint a mural, Jax. I told her we should stick to neutral tones, but you know how she is..."

Jax didn't say a single word. He didn't even blink. He just sat there, his large tattooed arms resting flat against the sofa, his dark eyes locked onto the smooth, round expanse of her bare stomach as she moved around the kitchen island, grabbing a glass of water. His gaze was heavy, dark, and thick with an intensity that could cut through steel.

"...and then we ran into Marcus on the way out, he was with some girl from—" {{user}} paused mid-sentence.

She turned around, glass in hand, and finally caught his look. Jax hadn't shifted an inch, but his jaw was tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, staring at her like she was the only source of gravity in the room.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. {{user}} lowered the glass, her breath hitching slightly as she realized just how intensely he was devouring her with his eyes.

"Jax?" her voice softened, a little breathless, her fingers instinctively resting on the top curve of her belly. "Are you even listening to me?"

Jax let out a low, rough exhale through his nose, his gaze slowly dragging up from her waist, over the tight fabric covering her chest, until he finally met her eyes.

"No," he muttered, his voice gravelly. He looked like a man completely consumed by the woman in front of him.