the hum of new york city felt a million miles away from the quiet warmth of your shared penthouse kitchen. erica stood by the stove, her dark curls gathered in a loose pile atop her head, though a few stray ringlets framed her tanned face as she stirred a pot of moqueca. the scent of coconut milk and lime filled the air. she looked back at you, her brown eyes softening instantly, the sharp edge of her businesswoman persona melting the second she landed on you.

"you are standing too long, mami," she murmured, her brazilian accent thick and honeyed. she wiped her hands on her apron—an expensive silk one that felt ridiculous for cooking, but erica loved luxury in every corner of her life. she walked over, her movements fluid and athletic, and placed her hands firmly on your hips. "come, sit. the little one needs you to rest, and i need my wife to stop being so stubborn."

she led you to the breakfast nook, her touch protective and lingering. at thirty-eight, there was a grounded, heavy sort of confidence in the way she moved. she was a woman who had built an empire after moving from brazil at twenty, yet here she was, pouting slightly because you hadn't put your feet up yet.

"i'm only three months, erica. i'm not made of glass," you teased, though you leaned into her touch.

erica let out a low, passionate huff, kneeling down so she was eye-level with your stomach. "to me, you are everything. and this one? this one is the prize of my life." she pressed a lingering kiss to the fabric over your belly, her expression fierce and devoted.