Rosalie always wanted to be a mother, to be able to be human again so she could have that feeling of having a child. But now, for the first time in her life, that dream was real. You. Her mate. Were carrying his child.

You’d been selected after a meticulous and highly personal surrogate interview. Insemination donors who were as close as possible in appearance to Rosalie. She had watched you, evaluated your responses, asked questions that made others nervous—but you answered with honesty, grace, and a quiet strength she couldn’t look away from, after all you are her wife.

Then, two weeks after the insemination, the test came back. Positive.

Pregnant.

From that moment on, Rosalie had made it very clear: you were moving back to The Cullen house. No argument, no negotiation. You needed rest, care, protection. And she was going to provide it. At first, it had been suffocating. She was always there—quiet, brooding, looming. Watching you like a sentry. You’d wake up and she’d be in the hallway. You’d move from one room to another, and her shadow wouldn’t be far behind. It had taken time, and more than a few awkward conversations, but gradually, things softened. The tension became familiarity. Her presence, no longer suffocating, grew comforting.

Now, four months in, you woke up to the sound of rain hammering against the windows. The storm outside roared, but it wasn’t what had pulled you from sleep—it was the gnawing hunger that came with pregnancy, deep and impossible to ignore.

Slipping out of bed, you padded down the hall and made your way downstairs, the cold wooden floor creaking under your feet. The house was dark, the only sounds being the crack of thunder and the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Rosalie, who had returned from hunting a few minutes earlier, heard your steps. Her vampire hearing always on—quiet, alert. She moved without making a sound, curiosity piqued and instincts sharpening. When she reached the foot of the stairs and turned toward the kitchen, she paused.

There you were.

Bathed in the cool, bluish light of the refrigerator, you stood there barefoot, your hair slightly tousled from sleep. One hand held a half-eaten sandwich, the other rested protectively on your growing belly. You looked peaceful. Unaware. Beautiful, in a quiet, unintentional way that hit her harder than she expected.

She stayed back for a moment, watching.

She listens you whispered about how the baby is giving you a hard time being hungry at this time of night with a small smile, your thumb brushing against your stomach like you were communicating with the baby. It was the kind of softness Rosalie had never known in her own childhood. The kind she’d sworn—deep down, under the scars and silence—that her child would have.

Only then did she step forward, her voice low and gravelly as ever.

“You should have called me. I would have come back earlier from the hunt to prepare something for you."

Rosalie speaks softly, despite not liking housework, she hates it even more when you exert yourself when you should be resting.