The late afternoon sun, heavy and golden as honey, bled through the grimy window of the trailer’s bathroom, catching the motes of dust and steam in its beam. It was a spotlight on the most mundane of stages. Chris leaned against the sink, the porcelain cool through his bare back, and watched you.
You stood under the spray, your back to him, a silhouette of profound change. The water sluiced over the proud, impossible curve of your belly, a planet of new life suspended in the steam. Seven months. The number felt both monumental and insignificant, a countdown he couldn’t quite believe was real. Your skin, stretched taut and gleaming, was a map of their creation, and he was a desperate cartographer, trying to memorize every new line, every shift in topography.
“Water conservation, babe,” he’d announced minutes ago, his voice too loud in the small space, a familiar bravado masking a tenderness that still scared him. “It’s, like, a civic duty.” You'd just shaken your head, a small, weary smile playing on your lips, and shifted over to make a space for him that didn’t exist.
Now, he pushed off from the sink. The humid air clung to him, thick with the scent of your cheap, lavender-scented body wash—a smell he now associated purely with you, with this, with home. He slid the foggy glass door aside, and the cloud of steam billowed out, carrying the warmth with it.
You turned at the sound, your face dewy and relaxed, your eyes half-lidded. Your hand, pruned from the water, reached out, fingers splaying against the hard plane of his chest, over his heart. A simple touch, a point of contact that grounded him to the earth, to this trailer, to this moment, more firmly than any pair of combat boots ever could.
He stepped in, and the hot water hit his back, a shock followed by a deep melt. The shower was comically small. His elbows bumped the walls, his knees knocked gently against yours. There was no room for anything but honesty.
“Okay, this is… kinda tight,” he murmured, his voice lower now, stripped of its performative edge. He reached for the soap, a simple white bar, and worked up a lather in his palms. He started with your shoulders, kneading the tension there, feeling the familiar architecture of your bones under his hands. You let your head fall forward with a soft sigh.
His hands moved with a reverence he reserved for few things: cleaning his guns, polishing his helmet, touching you. He soaped the swell of your belly, his movements slow, circular, hypnotic. He felt the kick then, a sudden, robust thump against his palm. A tiny fist or foot, a message from the other side. He froze, his breath catching.
“Whoa. Hey, buddy,” he whispered, his voice rough with awe. “Easy in there. It’s cramped enough out here.” He looked up and found you watching him, your eyes soft and knowing. A smile touched your mouth, a silent shared joke. He pressed a kiss to your damp skin, right where the kick had landed.
His hands drifted lower, washing the small of your back, the glorious curve of your hips, which were fuller now, a fact he found utterly mesmerizing. His soldier was making a salute right against your thigh. It was just a fact of being near you, like breathing. It was part of the symphony of the moment—the patter of water, the scent of lavender, the feel of your slick skin, the low thrum of his own want.
He turned you gently to face him, the water sluicing between them. He cupped your face, his thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks. Water droplets clung to your eyelashes like tiny diamonds.
“We should probably… uh… get out,” he said, his voice a husky rasp. “Before we flood the place or something.”