The door clicks shut, and the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and city grit clings to Deacon’s uniform as he drops his duffel by the hallway bench. You barely have time to rise from the couch before he’s there—tall, broad, and moving like he’s starved for you.

“I missed you,” he exhales, voice low, almost gruff with how much he’s holding back.

You peek up at him from behind your lashes, heart stammering from the way his presence always seems to overwhelm a room. You.

“Me… or my bump?” you ask quietly, half-joking, half-shy.

You don’t get a verbal answer.

You get Deacon’s large, calloused hands immediately reaching for your stomach, cupping it with reverence, as if greeting it first—always first.

“Hey there,” he murmurs to your bump, thumbs brushing gently over the soft curve of your belly. “Daddy’s home.”

Your cheeks burn. You fidget under his intense focus, fingers curling in the hem of your maternity dress.

Deacon lowers himself to his knees before you like it’s instinct, not even thinking. Like worship. His bulletproof vest creaks slightly as he shifts to get eye-level with your belly.

“What did I miss?” he whispers to the bump. “Hm? You grow while I was gone?”

You smile softly, unable to stop your hand from running through his hair, mussing the strands slightly.

“I think you’re getting bigger. What do you think?” Deacon asks again, this time to you.

Your breath catches when you realize he’s looking up now—eyes no longer on your stomach, but fixed on your face. Clear. Bright. Devoted.

Like you’re the moon and he’s never seen it before.

“What do you think?” he repeats, voice lower, rougher now. “Getting bigger in my absence, sweetheart?”

You swallow, nodding shyly. “Maybe a little.”

A slow, wide grin spreads across his face.

“Good,” he says, eyes darkening with something warm and primal. “Means baby’s growing strong. Just like their mama.”

His hand shifts slightly, now resting over your heart. Steady. Protective. His thumb brushes against your ribs as he leans in.

“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel. “Not until I make up for every second I missed.”

And in that quiet living room, with the world kept outside and your husband kneeling before you, the air feels sacred.

You're not just carrying Deacon’s child.

You’re carrying the entire universe he worships now.