Page 62 of Better as It

I smile through the tears I won’t let fall.

“You look like the man I’m in love with.”

He turns to me, serious. “Even like this?”

I rest my forehead against his. “Especially like this.”

At night, we lie together in bed, his arm wrapped carefully around my growing belly. He talks to the baby, his voice raspyfrom exhaustion but still filled with that steady, grounding strength.

He tells them stories about rides through the mountains, about the first time he met me, about how he once punched a guy named Rollo for using the last clean towel at the clubhouse.

The baby kicks when he talks. Always.

It’s like they know his voice already.

And I think maybe they do.

We start birthing classes in the community center downtown.

At first, we laugh our way through the ice-breakers. Our instructor, a perky redhead named Rachel, tries so hard to make everyone feel comfortable.

Justin deadpans his name as “Doctor Doom” when asked to share something unique about himself.

Rachel blinks.

I wheeze.

But it’s the breathing exercises that stop us both cold.

We’re told to sit face-to-face and practice the rhythm of labor breathing—me inhaling, him guiding the exhale, matching the tempo. It’s meant to build trust.

The second our eyes lock, it gets too real.

He sees the pain I’m holding back. The fear that he won’t be there. The panic I won’t let myself name out loud.

And I see his.

But we do it anyway.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

And we’re a team again.

Maybe the strongest one I’ve ever known.

One night, I catch him curled in the nursery rocker, staring at the half-built crib.

He’s thinner now. Hollow-cheeked. Still strong, but fighting for every ounce of energy.

“You okay?” I ask from the doorway.

“Just thinking.”

I walk in, sit sideways on his lap despite the awkwardness of my belly between us.

He groans. “Woman, you are solid now.”

“Don’t complain,” I tease, kissing his cheek. “I still make your green death smoothies.”

---