Twenty weeks. Halfway there.

Laia stood in front of the bedroom mirror, sideways, her hands cradling the unmistakable round swell of her belly. Twenty weeks of their baby growing inside her — twenty weeks of Derek talking to the bump every night, of him feeling kicks with his whole face lit up like a kid on Christmas.

— Stop staring and come to bed, — Derek said from the mattress, amused.

— I'm huge, — she announced.

— You're perfect, — he corrected. — Come here. Let me prove it.

She went — slower now, one hand on her back — and he pulled her down beside him, his hands immediately finding her belly, stroking it with open reverence.

— Hi, baby, — he murmured to the bump. — Derek's home.

The baby kicked — right against his palm — and he grinned like he'd won the lottery.

— Did you feel that? That's our kid saying hi.

— She's been saying hi all day, — Laia laughed. — She never stops moving.

— She, — he repeated, his eyes gleaming. — You said she.

— I said They — she protested, blushing.

— You said she, — he teased, kissing her. — I heard it. We're having a girl, Laia. I can feel it.

She melted — twenty weeks pregnant, emotional about everything — and pulled his mouth back to hers.

— Love me, Derek, — she whispered. — I need you. I feel... I just need you.

— Always, — he said — and his hands were already moving, gentle and sure, undressing her with the tenderness of a man handling treasure.

Pregnancy had changed her body — her breasts fuller, her hips wider, her belly round and perfect — and Derek worshipped every change. His mouth traced the curve of her belly, pressing kisses all around her navel, whispering to their daughter the whole time.

— You're so beautiful, — he told Laia, looking up at her — his wife, glowing, round with his child. — The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

— Flatterer, — she breathed — but she was glowing under his praise, her skin flushed, her body already aching for him.

He settled between her thighs — careful, mindful of the bump — and loved her with his mouth first, the way he always did. Slow. Patient. Devoted. She came with a soft cry, her hands cradling her own belly protectively, protectively, even in pleasure — always the Laia now.

Then he eased into her — slow, deep — her leg hooked over his hip, his hand cupping her belly the entire time, like he needed to hold them both at once.

— God, — he groaned. — You feel even better like this. All soft and perfect and mine.

— I'm yours, — she gasped, arching into him. — Always yours, Derek.

They moved together — unhurried, wrapped around each other and their baby — and when she came, it rolled through her like warm honey, and he followed her with a shuddering groan, his forehead pressed to hers.

— I love you, — he whispered. — Both of you. So much it terrifies me.

— Good, — she whispered back, smiling through happy tears — the words they'd said a hundred times. — Love us scared. Love us forever.

He held them — his wife, his daughter — his whole world in his arms, and he thought about that first night. The candles. The rose petals. Her legs in the air. The whispered maybe-this-time.

This time. It had been this time.

— Hey, — he said softly. — You know what?

— What?

— When she's born — he said, his hand spread wide over her belly — we're doing it all again.

Laia laughed — bright, joyful, free.

— Derek! She's not even Here yet!

— I know, — he grinned, kissing her — deep, possessive, full of promise. — But I've got a lot more breeding to do, Laia. This family's just getting started.

The baby kicked — as if in agreement — and they laughed together, tangled in the sheets, three heartbeats in one bed.

The end... for now.

The ultrasound was at sixteen weeks — the anatomy scan, the big one.

Laia lay on the exam table, gel cold on her belly, Derek's hand gripping hers hard enough to hurt. The technician moved the wand, and suddenly — there. On the screen. A tiny profile. A tiny hand. A tiny, impossibly fast heartbeat.

— There's your baby, — the technician smiled.

Derek made a sound — half laugh, half sob — and pressed his forehead to Laia's hand.

— That's her, — he whispered. — That's our girl.

— We don't know it's a girl — Laia whispered back, crying.

— I know, — he said, watching the screen like it held the whole universe. Because to him, it did.

They got printouts — grainy black-and-white photos of their daughter — and Derek carried them like they were made of gold. He put one on the fridge. One in his wallet. One on his nightstand, so it was the last thing he saw before sleep.

That night, he laid the ultrasound photo on her belly — lining it up, marveling.

— She was in there, — he said wonderingly. — Right here. This exact spot.

— She's still in there, genius, — Laia laughed, ruffling his hair.

— I know, — he said — and he lifted his head, his eyes dark and serious and full of love. — I just can't believe I get to keep you both. What did I do to deserve this?

— You loved me, — she said simply, pulling him up for a kiss. — That's all you ever had to do.

He kissed her — soft, deep — his hand spread over her belly, over their daughter, over everything he'd ever wanted.

And Laia thought: this. This is the whole story. Not the trying, not the waiting, not the two pink lines. This. A man who loves her so completely it remade their whole world.

Their girl kicked — right into his palm — and they both laughed, and the night went on, soft and perfect, three heartbeats in one bed.