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“Pretty much,” I said, giggling. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“Mad?” He pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine. “I’m over the damn moon. Surprised, yeah, but this—this is us. A little chaos, a lot of love.”
I relaxed into him, relief and joy flooding me. “So you’re ready to be a dad?”
“Hell, yeah,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m ready to build a crib, paint a nursery, whatever it takes. Just don’t ask me to change diapers yet—I need a minute to prep for that.”
I laughed, swatting his chest. “You’ll be a pro. I can already see you pacing the house at 2 a.m., singing lullabies.”
“Only if you’re singing with me,” he teased, then sobered, his hand sliding to my stomach, gentle and reverent. “We’re gonna need to pick a room for the kid. That house is big enough for a whole brood.”
I smiled, picturing it—the half-finished house, its wide windows and open rooms. “I was thinking the one upstairs, with the view of the ocean. Lots of light, perfect for a nursery.”
“Done,” he said, kissing me softly. “Ocean view for our little troublemaker.”
We lay back on the blanket. Noah’s hand stayed on my stomach, his warmth grounding me as we talked about the future—our house rising from the lot, a wedding when the time was right, and now, a baby who’d be part of it all. The pain of my father’s death, the scars of the mission, hadn’t vanished, but they’d woven into something stronger: us.
Noah pulled me close, his voice a soft rumble. “We’ll get there, Hallie Mae. Step by step.”
I nodded, my head on his chest, the ring warm on my finger, our child growing beneath his hand. “Together.”