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"Absolutely," he murmurs against my skin. "Prescribed treatment: extensive physical contact of a gentle nature."
His hands skim down my sides with deliberate slowness, treating me like precious cargo. The urgency that typically characterizes our physical relationship has transformed into something new—a reverent exploration, a conscious celebration of my body not just as a source of pleasure but as the vessel carrying our child.
When he finally carries me to bed, it's with such care that tears spring to my eyes. He notices immediately, his expression turning concerned.
"Are you in pain? Should we stop?"
"No," I whisper, pulling him down to me. "I'm just not used to being cherished."
Understanding softens his features. "Then I have months of making up to do."
In the quiet of the room, his hand rests protectively over my still-flat stomach, his breathing even against my neck. I cover his hand with mine, marveling at how this man who once seemed so unreachable has become my most steadfast harbor.
"I love you," I whisper, not certain if he's still awake.
His arm tightens around me, his voice low and certain in the darkness. "And I love you. Both of you."
Tomorrow will bring more headlines, more speculation, and more challenges to our still-evolving relationship. But right now, in this moment of perfect peace, I know with bone-deep certainty that we can weather whatever comes.
The storm may rage, but we have built our shelter. Together.
24
ROMAN
"Tell me about your father," Dr. Winters says, her voice carrying neither judgment nor expectation. Just a simple invitation to speak.
I shift in the leather chair, the material creaking under my weight. Two sessions into therapy, and I'm still not used to this—the quiet room, the unblinking attention, the space deliberately created for discomfort.
"We've covered that," I say, glancing at the clock on her desk. Forty-five minutes remaining. "He was demanding. Cold. Work-obsessed."
"You've provided facts about him," she corrects gently. "I'm asking about your relationship with him. How he shaped you."
The distinction irritates me—another reminder that I'm a novice at this kind of introspection. I take a deep breath, a technique she suggested in our first session. Center, then speak.
"He taught me that achievement is the only currency worth having," I say finally. "That emotion is weakness. That reputation is everything. That love is... conditional."
Dr. Winters nods, making a brief note. "And you're worried you'll parent the same way."
It's not a question. "I'm terrified of it," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "I look at Cassie, at what we've created, and I'm paralyzed by the possibility that I'll repeat his patterns without even recognizing them."
"That awareness is significant," she says, leaning forward slightly. "The patterns we're conscious of are the ones we can change."
I want to believe her. That's why I'm here, after all—sitting in this carefully neutral office, paying exorbitant hourly rates to learn how to be the father my child deserves. The father I never had.
"My grandfather was different," I find myself saying. "My mother's father. He saw me—really saw me. Not just my achievements or failures."
"Tell me about him," she says, and this time the invitation feels easier to accept.
"He built things with his hands. Furniture, mostly. Taught me that creation was its own reward." I smile despite myself, memory unspooling. "He had this workshop behind his house, filled with tools and wood shavings and the smell of linseed oil. It was the only place I felt like I could breathe after my mother died."
"It sounds like a sanctuary."
"It was." I run my thumb across my watchband.
We spend the rest of the session discussing concrete strategies—identifying trigger points that activate my father's voice in my head, developing alternative responses, establishing the parenting values I want to embody.
By the time I leave, the afternoon sun slanting across the city sidewalks, I feel both drained and curiously lighter. As if naming my fears has somehow diminished their power.