Chapter 26: Nesting Instincts
Clara knelt on the floor of the nursery, a sea of pastel cotton and tiny printed socks swirling around her. The air smelled of laundry detergent and the faint, dry sweetness of fresh paint. Ethan had finished the chair rail molding just last weekend, his concentration absolute as he’d measured and cut, the muscles in his back shifting under his t-shirt. Now, the room was a universe in waiting. A universe that currently didn’t have a logical system for its sock drawer.
“Do we organize by size?” she muttered to herself, holding up a sock so small it barely covered her palm. “Or by animal? Do giraffes go with zebras, or with all the other safari-themed items?”
Her lower back ached from kneeling, a deep, persistent thrum. She was thirty-four weeks. The baby—a boy, they’d decided to know—was a constant, rolling presence beneath her ribs, a resident who stretched and turned with leisurely, undeniable force. She wore one of Ethan’s old soft gray Henleys, the fabric straining over her belly, and a pair of leggings. Her hair, grown long and thick during the pregnancy, was a loose, wavy mess piled on top of her head and secured with a pencil.
The floorboards creaked behind her. She didn’t turn, a small smile touching her lips. She knew the weight and rhythm of his step.
Warm, work-roughened hands settled on her shoulders, his thumbs finding the knots along her spine with an instinctive accuracy that made her sigh. He began to knead, his touch firm and perfect. “The giraffe is clearly judiciary,” his voice rumbled close to her ear. “Look at his long neck. He’s overseeing the lesser animals. The zebra is in traffic enforcement. Stripes.”
She laughed, a soft puff of air. “You’re not helping.”
“I am helping. I’m providing governmental structure.” His hands slid down her arms, then came to rest on the high curve of her belly, one on either side. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He’d been working on assembling the crib again, having decided the first assembly wasn’t "Marine-corps level secure." Sawdust clung to the fine dark hair on his forearms. He splayed his fingers wide, his palms hot through the thin cotton. “Hey in there,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a private register she’d come to crave. “You chaos agent. Giving your mom trouble with your footwear?”
In answer, a distinct, hard kick rolled beneath his right hand. Ethan’s breath caught, just a little, just like it did every single time. The wonder never dulled for him.
“See?” Clara said, leaning back into the solid wall of his chest. “He’s on your side. Anarchist.”
“Future engineer,” Ethan corrected, nuzzling the sensitive space behind her ear. His lips were warm. “Testing structural integrity.” His hands began to move, slow, sweeping circles over her swollen middle. The touch was worshipful. It held none of the hesitant awe of the early days; this was a familiar, devoted language. “You are so unbelievably beautiful like this,” he murmured, his voice a vibration against her neck. “It does things to me, Clara. Just looking at you. Knowing you’re carrying him.”
A familiar, low heat began to unspool in her belly, separate from the baby’s movements. It had been like this for months. Her body, changing, had awakened a new, profound kind of hunger in both of them. It wasn’t the frantic, discovering passion of their first times. It was deeper, slower, a tidal pull.
His right hand slid down from her belly, over the curve of her hip, and slipped beneath the hem of the Henley. His palm, calloused and sure, skimmed up the outside of her thigh, over the taut skin of her stomach, and came to rest just below her aching breast. He didn’t grab, just held his weight there, a warm, heavy promise. His other hand remained on her belly, a possessive anchor.
“Ethan,” she breathed, her head lolling back against his shoulder. The laundry, the socks, the painted room—it all dissolved into a haze of sensation.
“Hmm?” He was kissing her neck now, open-mouthed, tracing the line of her tendon. His fingers dipped under the wire of her maternity bra, his thumb brushing over her nipple, which peaked instantly, sensitive and eager.
“We… the room…”
“The room can wait,” he said, his words muffled against her skin. “I can’t.”
His hand left her breast, journeyed lower, over the gentle hill of her belly, and delved beneath the waistband of her leggings and underwear. He found her wet and ready for him, her body already speaking the language his had initiated. She gasped as his fingers slid into her, his touch knowing and insistent. Her own hands flew back, gripping the hard muscles of his thighs for balance.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice gone gritty with want. “Right here. Let me feel you.”
Her climax, when it came, was a warm, deep wave that rolled through her, pulling a ragged cry from her throat. It left her trembling, her fingers digging into his legs. He held her through it, his arm a steel band across her middle, his face buried in her hair.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was moving. Gently, he helped her to turn, her movements clumsy and slow. He guided her to her hands and knees amidst the soft piles of baby clothes. The position took the weight off her back, opened her hips. She heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of his jeans being shoved down.
He entered her from behind, slowly, with a controlled care that made her whimper. He was huge inside her like this, the angle profound, and she felt impossibly full. One arm circled her again, his hand splayed over their child, holding them both. The other braced on the floor beside her.
There were no words now, just the harsh sound of their breathing, the soft, slick rhythm of their joining, and the occasional rustle of a tiny sweater beneath her shifting knees. The world narrowed to the points of contact: his hand on her belly, his body moving within hers, the press of his chest against her back. It was primal, and grounding, and holy.
He came with a choked groan, his body shuddering against hers, his grip on her becoming almost painfully tight before melting into a languid, spent hold. He collapsed gently beside her on the soft carpet, pulling her with him, careful of her belly, until she was nestled against his side, her head on his chest.
They lay there in the painted nursery, surrounded by the evidence of the future, their skin cooling, their hearts hammering a slowing tattoo against each other. The smell of sawdust and sweat and her own arousal hung in the air.
After a long while, his fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder. “I’m going to want you again after he’s born,” he said, his voice raw. “Soon as the doctor says it’s okay. I’m going to need to feel you, just like this, without anything between us. Just you.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. His blue eyes were dark, serious. “Just me,” she echoed.
“You’re my life,” he said, the words simple and devastating. “This is my life.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at her, at himself.
She thought of the frantic midnight drive to the clinic months ago, the terror, the thunderous sound of a heartbeat from a grey screen. It felt like a lifetime ago, a prologue. This, here, in the calm aftermath of their joining, surrounded by tiny socks—this was the central text.
From the living room, the old piano he’d restored sat silent. But in her mind, she heard a note, clear and sustained, holding under the quiet happiness of the moment. A note waiting for the next measure to begin.
Outside, a car door slammed. The ordinary world continued. They didn’t move.