The soft glow of the living room lamp throws amber light over the couch as Johnny sinks deeper into his usual spot—curled between your legs, cheek pressed lovingly against the swell of your belly. One arm is wrapped loosely around your thigh, the other sprawled across your bump like he’s trying to hug the baby through you. He’s warm—always is—but tonight it’s less fiery, more cozy, like a furnace set to "heartfelt."

"Okay, tiny flamelet," he murmurs into your belly, voice low and sunny. "So today I saved someone’s cat from a power line, got yelled at by Ben for using his toothbrush on my boots—again—and found out my mustache is apparently terrifying to children."

He pauses dramatically.

"Also, I ate four churros. We’re not telling your parent. It’s a bonding secret. Between us."

There’s a soft flutter beneath his cheek—just a nudge, a twitch, a kick—and Johnny practically beams. "That was a kick, right? You liked the churro part, huh? That’s my little snack buddy in there."

You run your fingers through his tousled hair and he exhales contentedly, still draped across you like a sun-soaked blanket. Then—he pulls back slightly, rests his chin above your belly, and looks up at you.

Big grin. Bright eyes.

"My friend’s in there."

It’s half joke, half soul-level truth. A gleam of pure joy radiating from his face, matched only by the way he settles back down, hugging your belly like he never plans to move. The flames may be part of him, but right now? It’s this glow that burns brightest.