Page 36 of Only ever you-Ana & Byron (Blindsided #2)

Chapter thirty-six

A memory

The farmhouse wasn’t made for this kind of heat.

Even with the windows flung open and the tower fan wheezing valiantly in the corner, the room simmered like a stew in a slow cooker.

Ana lay spread out on their bed like a defeated starfish, her belly rising from her like a great dome.

In her own words-otherworldly, impressive, alien.

She was humming the title track of Starwars .

She eyed it again, lips twitching. “Somewhere out there, ancient humans are pointing at this monolith and asking what divine force put it here.”

Byron snorted from the foot of the bed. “Probably thought it were a bloody launch pad.”

“Hear that? Daddy thinks we’re just an unfortunate launch pad now, sweetie,” she said with a dramatic sigh, waving at the bump .

She was eight and a half months pregnant. Forty years old. Glorious in the way of a fertility goddess in her imagination. Swollen like a watermelon. And exhausted.

And absolutely done.

It hadn’t been a difficult pregnancy. The scans were all fine, the baby healthy and currently kicking as if she was on a rugby trial.

But someone-probably that annoying registrar with a rabid interest in bad things happening on scans-had read the report of her first pregnancy and used the term high-risk during an antenatal appointment.

And that had sent Byron into a full-blown spiral.

Within twenty-four hours, she’d caught him in bed beside her, awake at 1.00 am lit only by the blue light of his phone screen, furiously googling-

Is it too risky to have a baby at 40?

Can a past spinal injury cause complications in pregnancy?

Can husbands have panic attacks due to wife’s pregnancy?

She’d threatened to throw his phone into the chicken coop if he didn’t stop.

But the guilt had sunk its claws into him, deep and suffocating.

And she knew him too well-every tight-lipped grimace, every overlong hug, every time he solicitously brought her water with exactly three ice cubes like it was the elixir of eternal life.

Byron hovered like it was a contact sport.

And Ana was the ball. She definitely felt like a ball.

But she had not spiralled, and was largely unbothered by anything except heartburn and the tragic lack of air conditioning.

She had carried on as usual. Writing deadlines.

Zoom calls. Telling him to go find something useful to do before he drove her mad.

He had been retired for two years now. His knees had forced the issue, though he'd pretended otherwise. She knew he missed the adrenaline of the pitch, the routine and the banter. In quiet desperation, she’d found him a local youth rugby team affiliated with the Wrexham Rugby Club U16s to coach.

It gave him purpose and her breathing space.

It occasionally reminded the young ones that legends still lived down winding Welsh lanes.

Byron still doomsday scrolled at night but things had calmed down just a tad.

Deaglán was out for count after a morning of collecting bugs of all shapes and sizes.

Byron snorted from the foot of the bed while braving the heat with a tiny pair of boxer shorts which left precious little to the imagination.

He had one of her feet cradled in his lap, cotton balls wedged between her toes and a bottle of aggressively purple nail polish clutched like a weapon of war.

“This colour’s mint, ” he said, dragging the brush with solemn focus. “Royal purple. Warrior queen shit.”

Ana arched an eyebrow. “You mean garish purple. I look like I kicked Barney the dinosaur in the crotch.”

Ana stretched her arm up, the light catching on the delicate jangle at her wrist. She turned it slowly, watching as the sun winked off the many charms that dangled from her bracelet-one she’d taken to wearing every day now.

Byron had added so many over the years-tiny mementos of their life together-that she'd had to start a second one.

The latest was an exquisite little silver pacifier, added when Deaglán was born.

Just beside it gleamed a tiny silver unicorn, gifted the day they found out they were having a girl.

Her expression softened for a breath, lips curving slightly.

He didn’t look up. “It’s prep. You think I’m lettin’ our daughter turn me into her canvas without practisin’? Nah. I'm gonna be like the Rock, only wi’ hair and better cheekbones. I need to be ready for glitter eyeshadow and sticky lip gloss warfare. You’re the guinea pig, love. ”

“Admit it,” she said, smirking, “you’re just learning how to paint by numbers.”

His signature smug grin appeared-dimples and all. “You’re not wrong, Ana girl.”

He kept at it, tongue poking out in concentration like he was painting the Mona Lisa. His curls were damp from the heat, clinging to his temples, and his bare chest glistened faintly with sweat. She was too tired to move, but not too tired to admire him.

She slid her other foot up his thigh slowly, watching as his eyes flicked to hers. She nudged gently, playfully, until her foot pressed lightly against the growing bulge between his legs.

“We’ve got another alien spaceship down here,” she murmured in a put on serious voice, rubbing teasingly. “This might need further exploration.”

He clenched his teeth. “Ana—”

“Oh, don’t be coy. You started it with the purple feet and the warrior queen commentary. Feeling my queen power today”

“You’re gonna regret this,” he grunted, “when your toes end up lookin’ like a bloody aubergine crime scene.”

“I’ll survive,” she whispered, dragging her toes with a little more firmness. “Besides, I like it when you lose focus.”

He tossed the polish bottle onto the nightstand with a thunk. His hand slid up her calf, slow and deliberate. He paused at the waistband of her tights-the same ones he’d helped her into that morning with exaggerated sighs and gentle kisses- while holding her eyes with his intense hazel ones.

“I bloody hate these stupid tights,” he muttered, peeling them down.

“You only hate them ‘cause they stop you from ‘rapid access to my arse’ as you put it. ”

He didn't deny it. His attention was elsewhere.

As he pushed her thigh gently toward her belly, Ana let out a soft sigh. He didn’t move for a moment. Just leaned in and kissed the curve of her belly, letting his lips linger.

“Are you counting my stretch marks?” she asked, eyes half-closed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice muffled against her skin. “There’re nine so far. Love every one.”

Her heart ached, tender and full.

Then his mouth travelled lower and disappeared between her thighs.

The room was saturated with her moans and confused moans to stop and not stop.

The heat of the day faded into the background as his mouth learned her all over again with reverence and restrained hunger.

She came quickly, gasping, body curling instinctively toward him.

He didn’t let go, just eased her to the edge of the bed, bracing her as he entered her slowly.

It was familiar now-this slow, quiet claiming of one another-but it never got old.

He was careful with her, since she showed him those two pink lines. As if each stroke had weight, meaning, memory. His hand slid behind her neck, guiding her eyes back to his.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice raw. “With them beautiful green eyes, baby... Look at me.”

She did.

She always would.

He was all she could see.

***