The bedroom was a study in stillness. The only movement was the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of the blankets over your swollen belly, and the faint, even breathing of the man beside you.

Kusuo Saiki lay on his back, one arm flung over his forehead, the other resting lightly on the sheets. His pink hair was mussed against the pillow, his usual impassive expression softened by sleep. He looked peaceful. Untroubled.

You, however, were monumentally, achingly awake. Every position you tried—propped up by a fortress of pillows, curled on your side, flat on your back—felt wrong. The baby was a restless, shifting weight, a tiny foot pressing insistently against your ribs.

A soft sigh escaped you. You stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the apartment at night.