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For the past 20ish days, Elsie and I have kept in touch as much as we can, and each time she says goodbye, I can see the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

It’s becoming harder and harder to be away from her and the baby, but I can’t just abandon my career and not provide for my family.

As much as I know I’m in love with Elsie, I still can’t bring myself to admit that to her. The fear of not hearing those three words back is too intense to take the risk.

But a part of me also fears the risk I’m taking by not admitting how I truly feel about her.

However, being back home takes those fears away, even temporarily.

“Honey! I’m home!” I yell as I come through the front door of the apartment.

“Living room.” I hear Elsie call back.

Dropping my bags in the entryway, I stride into the open living room to find a very clearly pregnant Elsie lounging on the couch.

Elsie is lounging in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt that drapes over her belly, which has finally popped with her pregnancy. Her fiery hair hangs in soft curls around her face and highlights the pink glow she has on her skin.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I say under my breath.

“Oh, shut up.” She snaps. “Pregnancy sucks, and I feel awful.”

“You’re showing now,” I say, admiring her rounded stomach as I walk around the edge of the couch to kneel before her.

Immediately, I’m on my knees before her with my hands outstretched.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing to her stomach.

“Sure.” She says softly.

Reaching out, I place my hands on her and find her body has changed.

What were once soft curves in her tummy have now hardened into a proper baby bump. The stretch marks I adore on her skin have multiplied, with new reddish-purple lines appearing among those that have already settled into their light white stripes on her already pale skin.

I give myself a moment to just let my hands roam her body, and when I finally look up at her, there’s a softness on her face that I’ve yet to see there before.

“You’re incredible,” I say softly, leaning in to give her a kiss on the lips. “Fucking incredible.”

“I’m really not.” She tries to say.

“No. Don’t do that.” I reach over to cup her face and lean in close. “You’re doing one of the hardest things nature asks of your body. You’re creating life. Don’t discredit yourself. I know it’s hard, but you’re fucking amazing for doing it.”

She frowns. “Has my body really changed that much? I barely notice anymore.”

“I guess time away makes me notice the changes more. But, yeah, you’re at 25 weeks, and you’ve definitely popped.”

“You still keep track?” She asks, her eyes lighting up with emotion. “When you’re away, I mean.”

“Of course. I keep track with the app on my phone and listen to our baby’s heartbeat every night before I go to bed.” I admit with a shrug.

A silence fills the space between us, and I let her study me without looking away.

I need her to see how much this means to me. How much she means to me.

“Ugh.” She groans alongside her grumbling stomach. “I fucking hate being pregnant. I’m always hungry or tired or gassy or some other gross bodily function. I want to be done with this.”

Standing, I take her by the hands and help her up from the couch until I’m looking down at her where she stands.

“You’re almost halfway there. You’ve got this.” I say, leaning down to give her a kiss on the forehead. “Now. What do you want for dinner?”

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