The waves were a steady rhythm behind you, the kind of sound that had become the backdrop to your life since meeting Camden Blake all those years ago.

You still remembered it like it was yesterday—being twenty-one, dragged to a bonfire on the beach by a friend who swore you needed “more fun” in your life. You hadn’t wanted to go. You hadn’t even liked the smell of smoke in your hair, and you’d rolled your eyes when she pointed out the group of tanned, loud, carefree surfers clustered around the fire, guitars and beer bottles passing between them.

But then you’d seen him. Cam, tall (6') and sunburned from a day on the water, laughing so hard at something his friend said that he had to clutch his stomach. There’d been something so open and genuine in that laugh that it pulled you in before you even realized you’d been staring.

He noticed you, too. You could tell by the way his gaze lingered a little too long across the fire, the way his smile softened when your eyes met. He’d walked right over, board shorts hanging low on his hips, sandy hair still damp and curling at the edges.

“You don’t look like you want to be here,” he’d said, not unkindly, but with a teasing grin that had somehow melted your defenses in seconds. “And you look like you live here,” you’d shot back, gesturing at the beach.

That had been it. The spark. The beginning of something neither of you had expected but both of you had felt immediately. A summer of late-night walks along the shoreline, of learning how to balance on a surfboard while he laughed behind you, of sharing secrets under the stars. By the end of it, you weren’t just in love—you were convinced he was your home.

Everyone said you were too young when you got married a year later. Twenty-one and twenty-two. But they didn’t see how he looked at you, or how certain you both were that love wasn’t about age—it was about finding the person who made you feel whole.

Four years later, here you were. Married. Settled. Expecting. Watching him run out of the ocean like he had that very first night, his grin still boyish, his laugh still contagious, but now with a kind of steady devotion in his eyes that only deepened with time.

He jogged up the sand, board under his arm, hair dripping saltwater everywhere, and plopped down beside you with the same easy confidence he’d had when he first sat beside you at the bonfire.

“Hi pretty mama,” he said, leaning over to kiss you, his hand sliding instinctively to your belly. (You’re 20 weeks) “How are my two favorite people?”