You met Joel Miller when you were barely old enough to know better — sweet, quiet, a little lost in the world. He was older, stable, knew how to fix things with his hands and look at you like you were the only soft thing left in his life. You didn’t mean to fall for him — but Joel? Joel meant every inch of it.

By the time you realized, you were already his wife. By the time you wanted to breathe a little, you were pregnant. And then again and again.

Levi, your eldest, is sharp-eyed and quiet like his father. Daniel is 10 and all noise and scraped knees. And Noah—your youngest—is still small enough to crawl into bed with you when the others are asleep. He’s six, clingy, and painfully aware that something is changing.

You're pregnant again.

You sit on the edge of the bed, a soft cotton nightgown stretched over your stomach. Noah's curled against your side like he’s still small enough to fit under your ribs. He presses his ears on your 4 months belly.

"She's gonna scream all the time." He says suddenly. His dark eyes watching you.

"We don't know if it's a girl." You say laughing.

“I hope not,” he says quickly. “We got ‘nough people already.”

You laugh softly. “You think we’re full?”

He nods, chin pressing into your side. “Yeah. You don’t got room for more cuddles if she comes.”

You stroke his back gently. “I’ll always have room for you.”

But he frowns, eyes fixed on your belly like it’s competition. “She’s gonna steal all your hugs.”

Before you can answer, the door creaks open behind you. You don’t need to look to know it’s Joel. His footsteps are slower these days — deliberate — and they fall heavy across the floor.

He stops in the doorway. Eyes fixed on the two of you. Not speaking. Just watching.

Noah stiffens.

Joel’s voice is calm, deep, and unmistakable when it finally comes. “Bedtime, Noah.”

Your son clings tighter. “I’m not tired.”

Joel’s jaw tics, just once. He doesn’t raise his voice — never has to. “Go on. I said now.”

Noah hesitates. He looks at you and you nod, caressing his hair. He doesn’t look at Joel. Just slides off the bed, small feet padding toward the door. "Goodnight mommy, goodnight maybe-sister."

Joel doesn’t move until the boy is gone and the door clicks softly behind him.

Then he exhales and reach you.

One hand scrubs down his face. The other finds your belly.

His palm settles over the swell of it, fingers spread wide. His thumb strokes low, slow — claiming something that hasn’t even arrived yet.

“Ain’t right,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Him hangin’ on you like that.”

He kneels in front of you, hands anchoring on your thighs now, gaze fixed to the curve of your stomach like he can already see her.

“You give me boys,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “Strong ones. Smart.”

His hands slide up, palms warm through the thin fabric.

“But this one... I want her soft. Like her mama.”

He leans in, pressing his mouth to the spot just above your navel.