“Cold?”
“Yeah but not for long.”
Soft light from the moon washes over us, while the gentle sway of the yacht is beneath our feet. The stars are out, clear and endless above us, and the hum of the sea is the only sound. I lean in, trying to recreate that perfect moment from our first weekend away together.
She lies back, shifting to get comfortable. Then wiggles again.
“Are you okay, babe?”
“Definitely not,” she says.
We both burst out laughing, discovering that pregnancy changes everything.
“I’m sorry, Alex, I can’t. I feel like I’m being smothered. And my back is about to snap in half.”
“It’s fine, favorite. Sex this late in the game is trickier than usual.”
“Let’s go to the bedroom.”
She moves ahead of me, stepping below deck as I follow. Inside, the cabin is dim and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of the overhead sconces.
I help her onto the bed, steadying her as she lies down on her side. I slip in behind her, molding my body to hers, chest to her back, hand sweeping over the curve of her hip.
“Comfortable?” I ask, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
She nods, scooting back into me. I bend her leg at the knee and lift it, sliding inside her with a slow, careful thrust from behind. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, don’t stop.”
My hand glides down, fingers parting her slick folds, stroking in slow, steady circles—each pass synced with the rhythm of my hips. Every movement is for her. Every sound she makes, mine to chase.
We move together—slow, aching, synced in every pulse and thrust. The rhythm isn’t rushed—it’s deliberate, a conversation shared between our bodies. She grinds her pelvis back against me, meeting every push with a glide of her own, her breath stuttering each time I sink deeper.
Her fingers clutch the sheets, a soft gasp escaping her lips with every crest. I keep my hand steady, the pad of my thumb circling just right, drawing her higher. And when she shudders beneath me, her back arching, her body clenching tight around mine—I feel it like a ripple through my spine. Her climax takes over, and I follow her into it seconds later, a groan tearing from my throat as everything inside me unravels.
She trembles against me, her fingers still fisting the sheets. Her moan is soft and breathless.
I bury my face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in, letting the moment stretch. Letting the quiet hold us.
For a long time, we don’t move. Just breathe. Just stay. And everything stills. The quiet swells around us, deep and full.
We stay that way—entwined, spent, breathing each other in.
My hand finds her belly and spreads wide across the life we’ve created.
“My whole world,” I whisper into her hair.
And it is. It always will be.
She drifts off, breath warm and even, body soft against mine. I stay awake just a little longer, watching her sleep. Letting the hum of the yacht and the hush of the waves sear into my memory.
This is the last time we’ll be out here this way—just us. No diapers. No cries in the night. No tiny socks turning up in strange places. No pitter-patter of small feet skidding across this very deck, laughter bouncing off the rails.
But I can already see it. Feel it. The shift. The life we’re making room for.
And somehow, even without having met this child yet, I already know—I’ll love that little heartbeat with everything I’ve got.
She gave me peace.
