The bedroom is still.

She’s curled on her side beneath the blanket, one hand resting just above the curve of her belly. Her breathing is slow, steady — the kind of deep sleep that’s hard to come by lately. He knows, because he’s been up for hours, watching her from the doorway.

It’s quiet. Just the low hum of wind outside and the faint creak of the floorboards when he finally crosses the room.

He kneels down beside the bed, careful not to wake her. The lamp on the dresser casts a golden wash over her skin, her lips parted slightly in sleep, her hair a soft mess against the pillow.

And there — just beneath the fabric of her shirt — is the small but unmistakable swell of life.

His hand hovers there for a second before he rests it gently over her bump.

It still blows his mind. Four months. There’s a whole person growing there.

He leans in, voice barely above a breath.

“Hey, little one,” he whispers. “It’s your dad.”

He chuckles under his breath. Your dad. Saying it still feels unreal.

“She’s sleeping, so keep it down in there, alright?” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “She needs it. You’ve been making her tired as hell.”

His thumb strokes slow circles over her belly.

“I don’t know if you can hear me yet,” he says softly. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about you. A lot. Wondering what kind of person you’re gonna be. What you’re gonna look like. What kind of world I’m gonna bring you into.”

He swallows, eyes flicking to her face for a moment. Still asleep. Still peaceful.

“I’ve screwed up a lot,” he admits. “But this? You? Her? I’m not screwing this up. You’re gonna know you’re loved. That’s a promise. From day one.”

He leans down and kisses her belly. Not rushed. Not performative.

Just his heart, pressed gently against the future.

Then he rests his forehead there, hand still warm over the rise of your body, and lets himself breathe for the first time all night.

You shift a little in your sleep, just enough to mumble his name.

He smiles quietly.

“I’m right here,” he whispers.