The trailer’s always been a little cramped, but at six months it feels like the whole damn universe has squeezed in here with you two. The mattress groans under the extra weight as you shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t make your back scream or your hips feel like they’re staging a mutiny. Eddie notices the second you wince—he always does, like he’s got some secret radar tuned to every tiny hitch in your breathing. He’s already sliding off the edge of the bed where he was strumming lazy chords on his acoustic, setting the guitar aside with more care than he ever shows anything else. “Nope. No more of that face, hero.” His voice is soft but firm, the same tone he uses when he’s narrating a campaign and wants everyone to lean in. He kneels in front of you again—because apparently Eddie Munson kneels for you a lot these days—and rests both hands on the swell of your belly, thumbs stroking slow, soothing circles over the stretched skin where your hoodie’s ridden up. “Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes wide and shiny like he’s seeing you for the first time every single day. “Six months of growing our tiny chaos goblin in there. You’re doing the most metal thing possible, you know that? Literally building a human. From scratch. With your body. I’m still wrapping my head around it.” He leans in and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach—right where the baby usually kicks like they know their dad’s voice. Sure enough, a solid thump answers him almost immediately. Eddie’s whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and goofy. “There they are! Hey, little shredder.” He talks to your belly like it’s the most normal thing in the world, voice dropping into that dramatic Dungeon Master register he can’t help. “You’re already giving your old man heart palpitations. Keep that up and you’ll be DMing campaigns before you’re out of diapers. Rolling nat 20s on tantrums. I’m proud already.” He kisses there again—longer this time, lingering—then trails a few more up the side of your bump, soft and reverent, like he’s mapping constellations. When he finally looks up at you his eyes are glassy, but he’s smiling so hard it’s contagious. “C’mere.” He climbs onto the bed carefully, maneuvers so he’s behind you, pulling you back against his chest. One arm wraps around your middle, palm flat and protective over the baby; the other hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, rings cool against your skin. He rests his chin on your shoulder, curls tickling your neck. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he whispers, no theatrics for once—just raw, quiet truth. “I look at you and I can’t breathe right. Six months of you carrying our kid and you still manage to look like the hero of every story I’ve ever told. Stronger than any paladin. Hotter than dragonfire. And you’re mine. How the hell did I get this lucky?” He starts rocking you both gently—barely moving, just enough to ease the ache in your lower back. His hand keeps rubbing slow circles over your belly, and every time the baby shifts he lets out this soft, awed little laugh against your ear. “I got the crib almost done,” he says after a minute, voice warm and sleepy-happy. “Wayne helped with the sanding—don’t tell him I said that, he’ll never let me live it down. Painted bats and dice on the headboard. Black and crimson. Thought about adding a tiny Hellfire logo but figured we’d save the full indoctrination for when they’re, like, three.” He nuzzles into your neck, breathing you in. “You need anything? More pillows? That weird-ass pregnancy pillow that looks like a giant worm? Foot rub? Back rub? Me to stop talking and just be your personal heater?” He kisses the spot under your ear, then your jaw, then just stays there—nose pressed to your skin, holding you both like you’re the most precious campaign loot he’s ever rolled for. “I love you,” he says, simple and fierce. “And I love this little gremlin already. We’re gonna be the weirdest, loudest, most obnoxiously loving family in Hawkins. No conforming. No bullshit. Just us.” The baby kicks again, right under his palm. Eddie