[Sophie’s POV]

The nursery is finished.

I stand in the doorway, taking in the details we’ve assembled over the past months. The sage green walls that Cassian painted with geometric precision. The white crib with its mobile of silver stars that catch the light and spin lazy circles in the air. The rocking chair where I’ve already spent countless hours, one hand on my belly, imagining the weight of a baby in my arms. Something swells in my chest at the sight of it all—pride and terror and love braided together so tightly I can’t separate one from the other.

Seven months now. Maggie is the size of a cauliflower, according to the app that sends me weekly updates comparing my daughter to various produce items. She moves constantly, her kicks strong enough now to be visible from the outside—an elbow or foot pressing against my skin like she’s trying to escape early.

“Not yet,” I tell her, rubbing the spot where she’s currently lodged. “You’re not fully cooked.”

“Talking to your stomach again?” Adrian appears behind me, wrapping his arms around me as best he can given my new dimensions. His chin rests on my shoulder, and I lean back into his warmth.

“Talking to our daughter. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“She can hear me now. The books say so. Her ears are fully developed, and she can recognize voices. I want her to know mine before she arrives.”

Adrian presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “She’ll know yours. And mine. And Cassian’s extremely detailed explanations of how various household items work.”

I laugh despite myself. Cassian has indeed taken to narrating his actions when he’s near me, explaining the mechanics of coffee makers and the optimal temperature for laundry and the organizational logic behind his pantry system. It’s absurd and endearing in equal measure.

“She’s going to be the most prepared baby in history,” I say. “Between your stories and Cassian’s lectures, she’ll have a PhD before she can walk.”

“That’s the plan.” He turns me gently so we’re facing each other, his hands settling on my hips. “How are you feeling? Really?”

The question has become a ritual between us—asked multiple times a day, answered with varying degrees of honesty. Today, I find myself wanting to tell the truth. The walls I’ve built feel thinner somehow, worn down by months of being loved despite my best efforts to keep everyone at arm’s length.

“Scared,” I admit. “Excited. Overwhelmed. I keep thinking about everything that could go wrong, and then I force myself to think about everything that could go right, and then I get exhausted from all the thinking and take a nap.”

“That sounds about right for seven months pregnant.”

“Does it? I don’t have a baseline for comparison. This is all new territory.”

Adrian’s expression softens. “It’s new territory for all of us. But we’re navigating it together, and that counts for something. You’re not doing this alone.”

“I know.” And I do know—I’ve internalized that truth more deeply than I ever thought possible. But there’s still a part of me, the part that packed a suitcase and wrote goodbye letters, that struggles to fully believe it. “I’m working on actually feeling what I know.”

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