His hand stayed on my stomach. “If I have to.”
I should have known then that Ethan never made promises casually.
The morning he left, dawn was still pale and colorless over the driveway. He loaded his bag into the car, then came back inside because he had forgotten nothing and simply wanted one more kiss. Then one more after that. He crouched in front of me with both hands braced on my knees, forehead against mine.
“Two days,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“Three if something goes wrong.”
“Nothing is going wrong.”
He leaned back enough to study my face. “That sounded like superstition.”
“Because you bring it out in me.”
He laughed under his breath and kissed me again, longer this time. When he finally rose, he pressed his palm over the curve of my belly. “Be good to your mother,” he told our son.
The baby kicked.
Ethan’s expression changed instantly—wonder, every time, as though this child had invented motion itself. “Traitor,” he said softly. “You take her side already.”