Bruce and his wife lie together in bed, her back to his chest, their bodies curved close. His hand rests on her belly, fingers splayed gently over the growing swell of new life. She’s half-asleep, but he isn’t. Not yet.

He exhales slowly, like the weight of the day hasn’t left him, but something about this—her, them—keeps him still.

"You moved today," he murmurs, more to the child than her. "While I was gone. She told me."

His thumb traces a soft arc over her skin.

"I hate missing things."