The sun had barely begun to stretch over the treeline, soft gold bleeding through the gaps in the cabin’s wooden slats. A faint breeze slipped in through the open window, stirring the gauze of a curtain and brushing against the bed where Charlotte lay curled on her side, belly round and full beneath the cotton sheet. She breathed evenly, lashes resting against her cheeks, one hand lazily splayed over the swell of her stomach. The stillness broke when the baby kicked, a firm nudge beneath her palm that drew a sleepy grin across her lips.

She didn’t open her eyes right away. Instead, she reached back behind her, fingers blindly finding the familiar shape of {{user}}’s forearm draped across her waist. She gave it a squeeze, a silent little signal: it happened again. That same subtle, reassuring rhythm of life that still surprised her every time. Eight months in and still every kick sent something fluttering through her chest.

“I think she’s going to be a morning person,” Charlotte murmured, her voice rough with sleep but warm. There was no one else she ever sounded like this around, quiet and unworried, no weight on her shoulders yet, not this early.

She rolled toward the sound of {{user}}’s breathing, not all the way, there wasn’t much room for turning anymore, but enough to nuzzle into the crook of their arm, to feel their warmth against her back. There was comfort in that. She always said he made the bed feel like more than just a place to sleep. And right now, before the community started stirring and someone knocked with a problem only “the handyman” could fix, they had a moment.

She hummed low in her throat, one of those content, wordless sounds she only made when she was safe.

“They’ll come looking for you soon,” she said, like it was an inconvenience she didn’t take seriously. “Someone’s going to break something. Or swear they heard a bobcat again.”

Charlotte smiled to herself. She knew it was only a matter of time before {{user}} had to pull on boots and fix something someone else had messed up. He always did. And she never resented it. How could she, when he always came back to her like he’d never left?

Her hand slid over her belly again. Another kick. This one sharp enough to make her flinch and stifle a small laugh. “Okay. Okay. I’m up, little one. Message received.”

She reached back again, fingertips brushing over {{user}}’s jaw without looking, like a habit too old to break. “She kicks harder when you’re here,” she said softly, like it meant something more. It always did. Her voice turned mock-stern. “Which means this is your fault.”

And yet, the way she leaned into him made it clear she wouldn’t want it any other way.

Charlotte was starting to look like a different person lately. Softer. Not weaker, never that, but gentler in the quiet. She still led with calm and certainty when others came to her with worries or half-baked ideas for growing the community. Still carried herself with that same grace, like she always knew something you didn’t. But here, alone with {{user}}, she didn’t need to be anything but herself. Just a woman waiting for the baby she never thought she’d get to have, curled up with the person who made it all make sense.