You wake to the feel of warm breath against the back of your neck, the scent of skin and sleep still clinging to the sheets. The morning light pours in gently through the curtains, casting gold across the tangled bedspread, across your bare legs, across his arm—draped lazily over your waist.

Julian.

You’re barely awake, still floating somewhere between dream and memory, when his lips brush your shoulder.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he murmurs, voice still low and thick with sleep. Then, a softer kiss. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

You blink, groggy and confused, a small laugh catching in your throat. “You’re sweet, but I’m not a mom, Julian.”

“Mmh,” he hums, inching closer, pressing his chest against your back. “Not yet.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks gives you away. “Really?”

His hand slips under the sheets, resting just below your navel. His touch is light but purposeful, like he’s reminding your body who it belongs to.

“You don’t think you deserve to be celebrated?” he murmurs, nosing behind your ear. “The way you care. The way you love. How soft you are with me—how strong. You give so much. I see all of it.”

You inhale slowly, warmth blooming in your chest—and lower.

“Still,” you murmur, “doesn’t make me a mother.”

Julian chuckles, the sound dark and warm against your skin. “No,” he agrees, his hand sliding lower. “But it gives me every reason to make you one.”

Your breath hitches as his fingers drift between your thighs, tracing slow, intimate lines that make your spine arch into him. His other hand curls around your hip, anchoring you to the bed, to him.

“I was thinking,” he says, voice lower now, heavy with meaning, “we don’t really have plans today… and if we just stay in this bed, all morning, all afternoon…” He grazes his teeth along your shoulder. “Maybe into the evening…”

You moan softly as his hand finally dips where you need it, his touch sinful and sure.

He moves with slow intention, coaxing you open under him, his lips painting heat across your neck.

And then he pauses—just for a breath—and whispers the question right against your ear, velvet and wicked.

“So… you ready to become a mother?”