The house was still and warm, curtains pulled tight against the noon sun. The telly flickered softly in the corner, its sound turned low, the only noise besides the gentle rhythm of little breaths. Heather and Mary were tucked against you on either side, Stella sprawled across your lap with her thumb still in her mouth, heavy with sleep. Your hand rested absently on your belly, feeling the slow stretch of your son inside while you sank deeper into the cushions.

The door creaked open, and Paul stepped in, the afternoon air and scent of earth clinging to him. His shirt was damp with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead, forearms streaked with dust from the fence he’d been working on outside. He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame for a second, eyes sweeping over you curled up with the girls. A slow smile tugged at his mouth. “That’s a sight, innit,” he muttered, his voice low and rough from the sun. “Me killin’ meself in the field, and you in here lookin’ like bloody heaven.”

He crossed the room, close enough now for you to catch the salt of his sweat and the grass still clinging to him. He didn’t sit—just stood over you, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other dragging through his damp hair as his gaze dropped to your belly, then back to your face. “Fence is comin’ along,” he said, almost absent, before his voice softened, lower now, just for you. “I’m sweatin’ like mad, love… come have a shower with me, yeah? Don’t wanna be in there without you.” His thumb brushed the side of your neck as he said it, the words tender but weighted, leaving no doubt what he really meant.