Before the sun

I woke before the sun, tucked into the crook of Doc’s arm, our legs tangled, our breaths synced like a quiet lullaby. The world outside was still gray, that soft pre-dawn hush that makes everything feel suspended. Sacred.

My hand rested on his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. I felt safe here—tucked into the warmth of him, the quiet thrum of his heart under my fingers. And yet, there was a pull inside me… a need I didn’t fully understand. Not just physical. Deeper.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he whispered sleepily, eyes still closed, his voice gravel-soft. “You okay?”

I nodded into his skin. “I just… needed to be close. Closer.”

His hand slid over the curve of my belly, and then up to cup my cheek. He opened his eyes, brows knitting gently.

“Come here,” he said, guiding me to straddle him. His touch was unhurried. “Let’s take our time.”

I leaned down, pressing a kiss to his mouth—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that said thank you and I still need you all at once. He kissed me back, his hands cradling my hips like I was something precious. We moved in silence, the room still dark, only the sound of our breathing filling the space between us.

He slid inside me in one, slow push—deep, grounding, whole. My breath hitched, and my eyes met his. Everything felt more intense in the stillness—his hands on my waist, the warmth of his body inside mine, the way he watched every flicker of expression cross my face.

I rode him slowly, savoring the depth, the stretch, the friction. My hands braced on his chest as I moved in fluid rhythm, my belly pressing between us, a physical reminder of the life we were building.

“You feel like home,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. “Every part of you.”

Something in me cracked open then. I didn’t mean to cry, it wasn’t sadness—it was release. Everything I’d been carrying: the fear, the guilt, the uncertainty. It spilled out in quiet tears as I rocked over him, our bodies joined, and hearts bared.

He sat up, wrapping his arms around me, still inside me, holding me as I wept.

“It’s okay,” he whispered against my skin. “I’ve got you. I’ve got all of you.”

“I’m scared,” I choked out, my fingers clutching his shoulders. “What if I mess this up? What if I can’t be what you and Anthony and this baby need?”

He cupped my face, brushing tears away with his thumbs. “You already are. And we’ll keep showing up for each other. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s hard.”

I kissed him again—this time with everything. Grief and hope. Love and ache. And as we started moving together again, it was different. It wasn’t just sex—it was healing. It was me letting him see me—all of me—and letting him love every piece.

Our climax came quietly, like a wave crashing in slow motion. I buried my face in his neck as we fell apart together, trembling, breathless, hearts pounding in sync.

We stayed like that, clinging to each other in the dark morning, the scent of skin and sweat and tears wrapping around us like a second blanket.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” I whispered against his collarbone.

He pulled back to look at me, eyes soft, voice steady.

“Then stay,” he said. “Stay with me.”

I nodded, pressing a kiss to his chest. “I’m staying.”