Our suite—our home—smelled like her. Wild roses and something spicier, something that always made me think of bonfires and moonlight and the way she whispered my name when no one else could hear.
She was in the middle of the room, barefoot, in one of my hoodies again—stretched across her belly, her hair twisted into some loose braid that had probably started neat and surrendered halfway through. Her hand rested on her bump, fingers tapping in rhythm with whatever song she had stuck in her head.
I just stood there for a second, watching her.
Trying to etch it into my brain.
Every curve. Every movement. Every impossible detail.
Then she looked up, catching me mid-sappy-thought, one brow arching like she knew.
“Took you long enough,” she said, lips twitching. “I was about five seconds a
