Page 56 of Owned In Misty Mountain

—-

We stay like that for minutes. Breathing hard. Tangled.

Then I pull her into my chest.

Stroke her hair.

Kiss her temple.

“You good, baby?”

She nods against my skin. “So good.”

And I know I’ve never been more gone in my life.

Twenty Four

Shanay

I knew something was off when the smell of Mike’s coffee made my stomach turn.

Which is insane, because I’d been drinking it like water since we got back from the honeymoon. That man makes the best damn cup of coffee in Colorado. But this morning? One whiff, and I bolted for the bathroom.

I rinse my mouth and lean on the sink, breathing slow.

Then I freeze.

I do some quick mental math.

And then I whisper, “Oh… oh shit.”

—-

I don’t overthink it.

I know my body. I know how I’ve felt since the second night we got back.

So I find the test buried in the cabinet, curse myself for not throwing it away like a normal person, and take it—hands shaking, heart thudding, breath stuck somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

It doesn’t take long.

Two lines. Bold. Strong. Immediate.

I cover my mouth.

My hands are trembling.

“Oh, my god.”

—-

He’s in the kitchen when I come out, barefoot and shirtless, flipping eggs with the kind of focus most people reserve for disarming bombs.

Mike Costa in his natural habitat: muscles out, beard scruffy, boxers low on his hips, grumbling to himself about olive oil.

And all I can think is—he’s going to be a dad.

I bite my lip and lean on the doorframe. Watch him. Feel something warm bubble up in my chest.

---