Page 41 of Curvy Cabin Fever

ARIA

THREE MONTHS LATER

By the time spring finds the cabin, I’ve stopped counting the weeks.

I measure time differently now—in fluttering kicks, in soft belly curves, in the way Morgan wraps himself around me in bed like I’m something precious. In the firewood Rhett stacks obsessively “just in case.” In the way Damien always has a hand on me, like he’s anchoring both of us to the earth.

I never imagined this life was mine to have.

The baby will be here before the snow returns. I think about that sometimes, how this place, once a storm shelter, became something else entirely—it became everything.

Morgan’s at the kitchen island when I come downstairs, sorting blueberries into a bowl like they’re sacred gems. He grins when he sees me, like I’m still the most fascinating thing in the room.

“Morning, sunshine. You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating,” I correct, tugging at the hem of my oversized tank. “I think the baby’s using my lungs as a punching bag.”

He slides the bowl toward me. “Eat something. Damien will scowl if you skip breakfast again.”

“He scowls anyway,” I tease, but I take the fruit anyway, popping a berry into my mouth as Rhett walks in from the porch.

He moves straight to me like he always does, brushing a hand over the curve of my stomach before he presses a kiss just beneath my jaw.

“Kick count?”

“Active. Especially when you talk.”

“Smart kid.” His hand stays on my belly. “Knows who’s in charge.”

“Debatable,” Damien calls from the hallway, already dressed, already exuding calm competence. He crosses to me, kisses my forehead, then my lips. “Doctor says you need to rest today.”

“The doctor also said walking’s good.”

“Fine. Walk. Then a nap. Then eat. And for the love of god, stay hydrated.”

“Yes, boss.”

They fuss. It’s annoying yet adorable. It’s love.

Later, we walk the trail together slowly.

Morgan holds my hand like he’s afraid the wind might carry me off.

Rhett walks a little behind, protective and silent as always.

Damien keeps pace beside me, eyes flicking toward the tree line like he’s watching for danger in the most peaceful place on earth.

It’s ridiculously perfect.

When we get back, I sink onto the porch swing and close my eyes and let the sun warm my skin. My feet are swollen—I feel like an elephant.

They move around me like planets. Morgan brings me water with lemon, then Rhett disappears inside to prep dinner. Damien tucks a blanket over my legs before sitting beside me, thigh pressed to mine.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

I nod. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

I open my eyes and glance toward the horizon, where the trees blur into blue. “How I got here. How I didn’t even know I was looking for this.”

His hand finds mine. “I know.”

I look at him.

“But it worked out, right?”

Inside, I hear Rhett swearing at the oven and Morgan laughing low in his throat. The kind of laugh that only comes when he’s relaxed.

I sigh. “I still don’t know what to call this.”

“You don’t have to name it,” Damien says. “You just have to live it.”

And I do.

We eat dinner at the table Rhett refinished last fall.

The baby kicks every time Morgan talks too loud.

Damien reads us something from an article about brain development, and Morgan throws a roll at him.

Rhett just shakes his head and passes me more potatoes, his hand lingering on my shoulder before he sits back down.

We make love later, slowly and carefully, the way we do now that my body is changing.

Morgan kisses my belly like it holds something so sacred, which is so cute.

Damien is careful in a way that makes me feel worshipped, not fragile.

Rhett holds me after, our foreheads pressed together, his breath calm and warm against my lips.

“I didn’t know I could want this,” he whispers.

“Me neither.”

“But I do. I want everything.”

The room is quiet afterward, other than the sound of our heartbeats. All four.

“I’m scared of doing it wrong. Of messing this up. Of not being enough,” I admit.

“You’re already everything,” Morgan murmurs.

“For all of us,” Damien adds.

Rhett just takes my hand and presses it to his chest. “You brought us home.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe I was the storm.

All I know is this—I’m not alone. I never will be again. And neither will this child.

As I drift to sleep between them—safe, held, loved—I whisper a prayer.

Not for anything more. Just for this to last.

Because it’s not perfect. It’s better. It’s ours.