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andrew cody who struggled with trust because of the way he grew up. it takes him a long time to fully let someone into his life, but once he does, he's fiercely loyal.

andrew cody who isn't naturally affectionate in front of other people, but the second you're alone with him he's always finding excuses to touch you. a hand on your knee. his arm draped over your shoulders. his fingers hooked through yours under a table. he needs constant proof that you're still there.

andrew cody who sleeps better when you're beside him. years of anxiety and bad memories keep him awake most nights, but somehow your presence quiets the noise in his head. he'll pull you against his chest and bury his face in your hair before falling asleep.

andrew cody who becomes almost painfully protective of you. not in a controlling way, but in a way that comes from fear. losing people terrifies him more than he'll ever admit. every time you come home late, he's pacing. every unanswered text sits in his mind until you reply.

andrew cody whose ocd tendencies get worse when he's stressed. he needs certain things organized a specific way, needs routines to stay predictable. at first he tries to hide it from you, embarrassed by how obsessive he can seem. but once he trusts you, he lets you see the parts of himself he usually keeps buried.

andrew cody who sometimes wakes up from nightmares convinced something terrible has happened. on those nights, he reaches for you immediately. your hand in his becomes an anchor. he'll sit there in the dark listening to your sleepy voice until his breathing slows again.

andrew cody who gets jealous easily but tries not to show it. he'll go quiet instead. his jaw tightens whenever someone flirts with you. later he'll casually ask, "you know that guy was hitting on you, right?" pretending he doesn't care nearly as much as he does.

andrew cody who melts whenever you play with his hair. he acts tough about everything else, but the second your fingers slide through his curls he's gone. eyes closed, leaning into your touch without even realizing it.

andrew cody who would never admit how much your praise affects him. growing up in the cody family means hearing criticism far more often than encouragement. so when you tell him you're proud of him, he goes strangely quiet and carries those words around for weeks.

andrew cody who softens around you in ways nobody else gets to see. the family knows him as unpredictable, intense, and dangerous. but with you, he's gentler. calmer. the version of himself he never thought he was allowed to be.

andrew cody who isn't great with grand romantic gestures. his version of love is consistency. showing up when he says he will, remembering important dates, helping when things get difficult, and staying loyal even when life gets messy.

andrew cody who becomes tense whenever his family drama starts affecting your relationship. he'd hate the idea of his partner being caught in the middle of conflicts they never asked to be part of.

andrew cody who stares at you when he thinks you aren't looking. not in a creepy way, just completely captivated. sometimes you'll catch him from across the room and he'll immediately glance away, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't just looking at you like you hung the moon.

andrew cody who kisses your forehead more than your lips. every time he walks past you. every time he leaves. every time he comes home. it's become such a habit that he doesn't even think about it anymore, automatically pressing a soft kiss against your skin before moving on with whatever he was doing.

andrew cody who absolutely loves having you in his lap. he'll pull you onto him while he's sitting on the couch, wrapping both arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. he could sit like that for hours, listening to you talk about absolutely anything.

andrew cody who loves lazy mornings with you more than anything. sunlight filtering through the curtains, your body curled against his, neither of you in any hurry to move. he'll brush your hair away from your face and just watch you wake up, looking softer than you've ever seen him.

andrew cody who loves when you're the one initiating affection. after years of feeling unwanted and misunderstood, every time you reach for him first it does something to his heart. a hug from behind while he's making coffee can improve his mood for the rest of the day.

andrew cody who whispers "come here" whenever you're standing too far away for his liking. then immediately wraps his arms around you the second you step closer, holding you against his chest like he hasn't seen you in weeks.

andrew cody who kisses you like he's trying to memorize you. one hand cupping your face, the other around your waist, holding you close enough to hear your heartbeat. afterward he'll rest his forehead against yours and stay there, eyes closed, completely content just being near you.

andrew cody who apologizes for things that aren't really his fault. years of carrying guilt have convinced him that every bad thing somehow traces back to him. sometimes you'll catch him saying "sorry" after having a nightmare or after a panic attack, and your heart breaks because he genuinely believes he's inconveniencing you.

andrew cody who occasionally wakes up before dawn and just watches you sleep. there's always this lingering fear in the back of his mind that he'll lose everything good in his life. so sometimes he lies there quietly, memorizing your face in the soft morning light.

andrew cody who hates arguing with you. even minor disagreements leave him unsettled for hours. if you go to bed upset, he won't sleep. he'll lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word and convincing himself he's ruined everything.

andrew cody who sometimes asks, "you're not leaving me, right?" during vulnerable moments. never dramatically. never looking directly at you. just a quiet question slipped into the darkness when his fears get the better of him.

andrew cody who accidentally falls asleep holding onto your shirt after a particularly rough day. when you find him, his grip is still tight even in sleep, like some part of him is afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

The first cramp came while you were folding baby clothes.

It was not dramatic.

That was the thing you would keep thinking about later.

It did not arrive like something out of a film. No sudden gasp. No dramatic clutching of furniture. No water breaking on the nursery floor. No immediate, undeniable knowledge that something was wrong.

Just a tightening.

Low and strange.

A hard pull across your stomach that made your hand still over a tiny yellow sleepsuit.

You frowned.

The nursery was quiet around you, soft green in the late afternoon light. The rocking chair sat by the window with a folded blanket over one arm. The crib had finally been built after three hours, two arguments, and Craig deciding halfway through that the instructions were "hostile."

Andrew would have hated how much Craig had complained.

Andrew would also have complained more.

You stood there for a second with one hand resting on your stomach, waiting.

The tightness eased.

You breathed out slowly.

"Okay," you murmured. "That was rude."

The baby shifted under your palm.

A small roll.

A reassurance.

You looked down at the clothes laid out on the dresser. Tiny socks. Tiny vests. The duck onesie, still somehow the most emotionally significant piece of clothing in the house.

You picked up the yellow sleepsuit again.

Then it happened a second time.

Stronger.

Your stomach tightened beneath your hand, hard in a way that made your breath catch.

Not pain exactly.

Pressure.

A clench.

A warning.

You gripped the edge of the dresser.

"Okay," you whispered, less amused this time.

The room seemed to narrow.

You waited for it to pass.

It did.

But your heart had already started beating too fast.

You knew about Braxton Hicks. You had read about them. The books said they were normal. Practice contractions, which sounded cute and harmless until your own body did it while you were standing alone in a half-finished nursery with your husband behind prison walls and your daughter still too little to be here yet.

You were thirty-one weeks.

Too early.

Not catastrophically early, maybe.

But early enough.

Your hand pressed against your stomach.

"Stay put," you whispered.

The baby kicked once, sharp and immediate.

You laughed, but it came out thin.

"Good. Fine. Bossy already."

You tried to keep folding.

That lasted six minutes.

The next tightening came while you were carrying a stack of clothes to the laundry basket. You had to stop halfway across the room and lean against the wall, one hand over your stomach and the other braced against the paint Andrew had picked.

Soft green.

Like trees.

The pressure wrapped around you, firm and uncomfortable.

This time, there was a dull ache in your lower back too.

Your throat went dry.

"No," you said softly. "No, no, no."

It eased after maybe thirty seconds.

Maybe less.

It felt longer.

You stood there breathing too carefully, staring at the crib.

The crib was done.

The hospital bag was not.

That thought struck with ridiculous, cold clarity.

The hospital bag was not packed.

You had meant to do it tomorrow.

You pressed your palm harder to your stomach.

The baby moved again.

That helped.

Not enough.

You grabbed your phone from the chair and called the doctor's office.

By the time the nurse picked up, your voice sounded strange even to you. Polite. Calm. Too calm.

You answered her questions.

Thirty-one weeks.

Tightening every few minutes, maybe.

No bleeding.

No fluid.

Baby moving.

Backache, yes, a little.

Had you had enough water today?

You looked at the half-full bottle on the dresser.

"I think so."

The nurse paused.

That pause did not help.

She told you to drink water, lie on your left side, and time the contractions. If they continued, if they became regular, if there was pain or bleeding or reduced movement, go in immediately.

You said okay.

You hung up.

Then another tightening came before you had even lowered the phone.

This one hurt.

Not badly.

But enough.

Enough that fear moved through you like cold water.

You called Craig.

He answered on the third ring.

"Yeah?"

You closed your eyes. "Can you come over?"

There was a shift in the line. Instant. Alert.

"What happened?"

"Probably nothing."

"What happened?"

"I'm having contractions."

Craig swore.

"They might be Braxton Hicks," you said quickly. "The nurse said—"

"I'm coming."

"Craig."

"I'm coming."

The line went dead.

You stood in the nursery with the phone in your hand, staring at the wall.

Then you laughed once.

Small.

Shaky.

"Runs in the family," you whispered.

Craig arrived in eleven minutes.

You knew because you timed it along with the contractions.

They had not stopped.

They were not perfectly regular, but they were close enough that you had stopped pretending you were fine.

By the time Craig let himself in, you were lying on your left side on the bed with a bottle of water in one hand and your contraction timer open on your phone.

He appeared in the doorway, pale under his tan.

"You look like shit."

You blinked at him.

"Thank you."

"Sorry." He dragged a hand over his mouth. "Sorry. Bad opening."

"You think?"

He stepped closer, eyes flicking to your stomach like he expected something visible to be happening. "Are you in labour?"

"I don't know."

The words cracked.

Craig's face changed.

You hated that more than anything.

The way people changed when they realized you were scared.

You tried to sit up.

Craig moved immediately. "Don't."

"I need my bag."

"What bag?"

"Hospital bag."

"Where is it?"

"Not packed."

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Then you both started moving.

It would have been funny if you had not been terrified.

Craig packed like a man defusing a bomb with no training. He held up things and demanded verdicts.

Phone charger.

Yes.

Toothbrush.

Yes.

Three baby outfits.

"Why three?"

"I don't know, Craig. Because babies need clothes."

"How many clothes?"

"I don't know!"

He threw all three in.

You stood in the bedroom doorway, one hand pressed to your stomach, breathing through another tightening while Craig shoved socks into the bag with the grim determination of a man going to war against cotton.

"Okay," he said. "We go."

"It might be nothing."

"Great. We'll find out professionally."

You almost smiled.

Almost.

Then the baby shifted under your hand and your throat closed.

Craig saw.

His voice softened. "She moving?"

You nodded quickly.

"Good."

"Yeah."

"That's good."

"I know."

"You're crying."

"I know."

"Okay." Craig grabbed the bag, then his keys. "That's allowed."

That made you cry harder.

He looked panicked.

"Is that bad?"

"No," you said, wiping your cheeks. "That was weirdly nice."

"Don't tell anyone."

"I'm telling Andrew."

"Don't."

"You were kind in a crisis. He should know."

"Get in the car."

The drive to the hospital was too bright.

Too normal.

People were buying groceries. Walking dogs. Stopping at lights like your whole body had not become a countdown you did not understand.

Craig drove with both hands on the wheel and his jaw clenched.

He did not speed much.

That was how you knew he was scared.

The contractions eased on the way.

Of course they did.

By the time you reached labour and delivery triage, they had spread out enough that you felt slightly stupid.

The nurse did not make you feel stupid.

You loved her for it.

She got you into a room, checked your vitals, strapped monitors around your stomach, and smiled when your daughter's heartbeat filled the room in a fast, steady rhythm.

You started crying immediately.

Craig looked at the monitor like it had personally saved his life.

"That's her?" he asked.

"That's her," the nurse said.

His face did something complicated.

He looked away.

You pretended not to see.

The doctor came in later.

Everything was fine.

Closed cervix.

No signs of labour.

Baby looked good.

Braxton Hicks, most likely, maybe worsened by dehydration and overdoing it.

You were told to rest. Drink more water. Stop lifting things. Stop trying to organize the entire nursery alone.

You nodded like a woman who had not been doing exactly that.

Craig gave you a look.

You ignored him.

Two hours later, you were back home.

Not in labour.

Still pregnant.

Still shaky.

Craig did not leave right away.

He made toast you did not ask for and sat at your kitchen table like a guard dog with worse manners.

"You need to call him," he said.

You looked up from the untouched toast.

"I know."

"You gonna?"

"Yes."

Craig nodded.

He stood, then hesitated.

"If he gets weird—"

"He won't."

Craig looked doubtful.

You smiled faintly. "He might get Andrew weird. But not bad weird."

"That's still weird."

"Yes."

Craig nodded again, accepting that with the resignation of a man who had known his brother too long.

"You want me here?"

Your chest softened.

"No. But thank you."

He shrugged like it was nothing.

It was not nothing.

After he left, the house seemed too quiet again.

You went upstairs slowly.

Not to the nursery.

The nursery felt too much right now.

Instead, you climbed into bed in Andrew's T-shirt, tucked a pillow under your stomach, and kept one hand on the baby until she kicked twice.

There.

There.

Still here.

You stared at your phone.

You could not call him directly.

You had to wait.

That was sometimes the worst part of loving Andrew now. Not the prison smell. Not the glass. Not the short visits. The waiting.

Waiting for calls.

Waiting for letters.

Waiting for updates.

Waiting to tell him things that had already happened inside your body hours before.

At 9:42, the phone rang.

You answered before the second ring.

The automated voice began.

You pressed one.

Static.

A click.

Then him.

"Hey."

You closed your eyes.

The sound of his voice almost broke you.

"Hey."

There was a pause.

Not long.

Long enough.

"What happened?" Andrew asked.

Your eyes opened.

You stared at the dark window across the bedroom.

"What?"

"What happened?"

You swallowed. "Why do you think something happened?"

"You sound wrong."

Your throat tightened.

Of course.

Of course he heard it in one word.

"Andrew—"

"What happened?"

You pressed your palm against your stomach.

The baby shifted sleepily beneath your hand.

"We had a scare."

Silence.

Not empty.

Immediate.

Sharp.

"What kind of scare?"

Your eyes filled again.

"I'm okay. The baby's okay."

"What kind?"

"I had contractions."

The line went so quiet you could hear the prison behind him more clearly for a second. Someone talking. A door. A guard's voice.

Then Andrew said, very low, "When?"

"This afternoon."

"How many?"

"I don't know. Enough that I called the nurse."

"You went in?"

"Yes."

"Who took you?"

"Craig."

He breathed out, but not with relief.

Not fully.

"What did they say?"

"Braxton Hicks. Probably. I wasn't dilating. Her heartbeat was good. Everything looked fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"You saw a doctor?"

"Yes."

"They checked?"

"Yes, Andrew."

"Baby moving?"

"Yes." Your voice cracked. "She's moving."

His breathing changed.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth and tried not to cry out loud.

Andrew heard anyway.

"Baby."

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

"I am now."

"That's not the same."

You closed your eyes.

"No," you whispered. "It's not."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You could hear him breathing through the phone, controlled but uneven. You could picture him standing with the receiver pressed too hard to his ear, eyes fixed on nothing, body locked down around everything he was not saying.

Then he asked, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

It was not angry.

That was worse.

It was hurt.

You turned your face into the pillow.

"I couldn't call you."

"You could've sent a message."

"I know."

"You didn't."

"I know."

"Why?"

The tears slipped into your hair.

"Because I didn't know anything yet," you said. "And I didn't want you sitting in there with no answers."

Andrew was silent.

"I didn't want to scare you until I knew whether there was something to be scared about."

His voice was rough when he answered.

"I'm already scared."

Your heart cracked.

"Andrew."

"I don't need you making it clean for me."

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because he was right.

Not cruelly.

Not completely.

But right enough.

You had tried to package it for him. Tried to hand him the scare after it was over, wrapped in the proof that everything was fine, because the thought of him trapped with fear and nothing to do with it had made you feel sick.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

He did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was quieter.

"I'm not mad."

"I know."

"I just need to know."

"I know."

"Even if it scares me."

You squeezed your eyes shut.

The baby moved slowly beneath your palm.

"I know," you said again.

"You can't wait until you're okay to tell me you weren't."

That one hit hard.

Your breath shuddered.

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"No, you're doing the voice."

"What voice?"

"The voice where you agree so I stop pushing."

Despite yourself, a wet laugh slipped out.

Andrew went quiet.

Then, softer, "There you are."

The words undid you.

A sob caught in your throat.

"I was really scared," you admitted.

His breathing stopped.

You hadn't said it until then.

Not to Craig.

Not to the nurse.

Not even to yourself, not properly.

"I was in the nursery," you whispered. "Folding clothes. And it started, and I knew it could be normal, but then it kept happening and my back hurt and I just kept thinking, no, not yet. She's too little, Andrew. She's still too little."

Your voice broke.

"She's okay," he said immediately.

"I know."

"She's okay."

"I know."

"You're home?"

"Yes."

"In bed?"

"Yes."

"On your side?"

You laughed shakily. "Yes."

"Water?"

"Beside me."

"Drink."

You reached for the bottle and took a sip. "There."

"Again."

"Andrew."

"Please."

That stopped you.

You drank again.

"Okay."

"Good."

His voice was lower now.

Still scared.

But steadier because there were tasks.

Andrew had always been better when there were tasks. Drink water. Lie down. Count movements. Call the doctor. Pack the bag. Lock the door. Small things he could line up against fear like furniture braced against a storm.

"You need to rest tomorrow," he said.

"I will."

"No nursery."

"I know."

"No laundry."

"I know."

"No carrying things."

"I know."

"Craig can come over."

"Craig has already appointed himself contraction sheriff."

"He should."

"He packed three baby outfits because I panicked."

"He did right."

"He asked why she needed three."

"She might."

"She might?"

"I don't know. Babies throw up."

You laughed again.

It felt easier this time.

The baby kicked.

You inhaled softly.

Andrew caught it.

"What?"

"She kicked."

"Hard?"

"No. Just... there."

"Can you put me on?"

Your eyes filled.

"Yeah."

You moved the phone from your ear and pressed it against your stomach.

"She's listening," you whispered.

Andrew was quiet for a moment.

Then, low and gentle, he said, "Hey, baby girl."

The baby shifted under the phone.

Your lip trembled.

"You scared your mom today."

You closed your eyes.

"Don't do that."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"She says you're okay. The doctor says you're okay. So we're gonna believe that."

He paused.

"And you're gonna stay in there longer, alright?"

Your hand covered the phone lightly, holding his voice against your stomach.

"Not forever," he added, as if realizing that sounded wrong. "Just longer."

A broken laugh slipped out of you.

Andrew's voice softened.

"She's tired. So be easy on her tonight."

The baby moved.

You smiled through tears.

"And keep moving," he said. "She needs that."

Your throat closed.

"Every once in a while. Just enough so she knows."

The baby kicked again.

You gasped softly and brought the phone back to your ear.

"She kicked."

Andrew was silent for a second.

"Good," he said.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

The way he said it was so soft that you had to close your eyes.

Not performative.

Not sweet in a way that felt unnatural.

Just him.

Relieved.

Grateful.

Your daughter's father, standing at a prison phone and asking her to stay where she was.

"I hated the monitor," you said quietly.

"What monitor?"

"At the hospital. They put one on for her heartbeat."

His voice changed. "You heard it?"

"Yeah."

"What did it sound like?"

You smiled through the tears.

"Fast. Strong. Like a little horse."

"A horse?"

"That's what it sounded like."

He went quiet.

"I wish I could've recorded it."

"Next time."

"There may not be a next time before she's born."

"Then after."

You softened.

After.

A word you both handled carefully.

After meant birth. It meant baby. It meant Andrew meeting her whenever the rules allowed. It meant a future that still had too many locked doors in it, but also a little girl on the other side of them.

"After," you repeated.

His breathing warmed the line.

"What else did they say?"

"That I'm probably dehydrated."

"You never drink enough."

"I drink water."

"You forget."

"I am being attacked."

"You are being told."

"You sound like a pamphlet."

"You need pamphlets."

"I have seven pregnancy books and a contraction app. I am fully pamphleted."

"Good."

You smiled faintly.

"They said I'm doing too much," you admitted.

Andrew was very quiet.

You braced for the lecture.

It did not come.

Instead, he said, "Yeah."

Just that.

Soft.

Knowing.

It hurt worse than a lecture.

"I'm trying," you whispered.

"I know."

"I'm not trying to be stupid."

"I know."

"I just look around and there's so much to do, and everyone helps, but..." You swallowed. "It's my body. It's our baby. It feels like if I stop moving, I'll start thinking too much."

Andrew said nothing for a moment.

Then, "You can stop."

Your eyes burned.

"She'll still come."

You pressed a hand over your mouth.

"The room doesn't have to be done for her to come," he said.

You laughed softly through tears. "The crib should probably be done."

"The crib is done."

"Barely."

"Still done."

"Craig did swear at it a lot."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Means he cared."

Your smile shook.

"He does."

"I know."

The call timer beeped faintly.

You stiffened.

Andrew heard that too.

"How long?" you whispered.

"Ten."

You relaxed a little.

Ten was not enough.

Ten was something.

"Can you stay on until I fall asleep?" you asked.

The question came out before you could stop it.

Childish, maybe.

Needy.

You did not care.

Andrew's voice softened.

"Yeah."

"You don't have to talk."

"I'll talk."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

You turned more comfortably onto your side, tucking the pillow beneath your stomach.

"What are you going to talk about?"

"Water."

You laughed.

"Very soothing."

"And not carrying things."

"Bedtime threats."

"Instructions."

"I love you, but you are not calming."

Another almost laugh.

Then he said, "Close your eyes."

You did.

"Are they closed?"

"Yes."

"You're lying?"

"No."

"You smiled."

"How do you know?"

"You breathe smug."

"I do not breathe smug."

"You do."

You smiled harder.

The baby settled.

Your body finally started to unclench.

Andrew's voice stayed low.

He talked about practical things first because that was how he got himself steady. Water by the bed. Phone charged. Doctor number saved. Craig on call. Hospital bag moved downstairs because you did not need to be dealing with stairs if it happened again.

You hummed along.

He told you to put snacks in the bag.

You told him you had.

He told you to put more.

You told him he was not personally responsible for hospital snack logistics.

He disagreed.

Then, after a while, his voice softened into something less structured.

He talked about the photo of you in the nursery.

The green walls.

The loud chair.

The duck onesie.

He told you he had looked at the picture again after dinner. Then before the call. Then once more right before leaving for the phones, like he needed to make sure he remembered where he was calling.

You listened with your eyes closed, one hand over your stomach.

The fear did not disappear.

Not completely.

But it loosened.

Andrew's voice moved through the dark bedroom, rough and quiet and familiar.

The baby shifted once, then settled too.

"She's calm now," you murmured.

"Good."

"You are too."

Andrew paused.

Then, honestly, "No."

You smiled sadly.

"No?"

"No."

"Me neither."

"That's okay."

You opened your eyes.

The room was dark except for the weak glow from the hallway.

"That's new," you whispered.

"What?"

"You saying it's okay not to be calm."

He was quiet for a second.

"Trying it out."

You laughed softly.

"How does it feel?"

"Bad."

You laughed harder, but gently.

"Proud of you."

"Don't."

"I am."

He made a low sound, embarrassed.

The timer beeped again.

Your stomach sank.

"How long now?"

"Two."

You closed your eyes.

"Okay."

His voice lowered. "You falling asleep?"

"Almost."

"Good."

"I'm scared to hang up."

"I know."

"What if it happens again?"

"Then you call the doctor."

"I know."

"And Craig."

"I know."

"And you message me."

Your throat tightened.

"Even if I don't know anything yet?"

"Especially then."

You nodded into the pillow even though he couldn't see.

"Okay."

"Say it."

"I'll message you."

"When?"

"If it happens again."

"Or if you're scared."

You swallowed.

"Or if I'm scared."

"Good."

The baby gave one tiny movement beneath your hand.

You smiled.

"She moved."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Tell her I love her."

"I will."

"And tell her to stay put."

"I will."

"And tell her..." He stopped.

"What?"

He breathed out.

"Tell her she did good today."

Your eyes filled.

"She scared us."

"Yeah."

"But she stayed."

You pressed your palm over your stomach.

"She did."

"So tell her."

You smiled through tears.

"I will."

The timer beeped.

"One minute."

Neither of you spoke for a few seconds.

Then you whispered, "Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm okay."

His breath caught quietly.

Not because he fully believed it.

Because he wanted to.

Because tonight, maybe, okay could be temporary and still matter.

"I know," he said.

"And she's okay."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

His voice went rough.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The line clicked.

Gone.

You kept the phone against your ear for a moment after the silence came.

Then you lowered it and placed it beneath the pillow.

The bedroom stayed dark.

The house stayed quiet.

Your body still felt strange, tender and exhausted from fear.

But your daughter moved beneath your hand.

One slow roll.

Then stillness.

You rested your palm there and breathed.

"She did good today," you whispered.

Your voice cracked.

"You scared me half to death, but you did good."

Another tiny shift.

You laughed softly, wiping your cheek against the pillow.

"And your dad says stay put."

The baby did not kick again.

For once, she listened.

You closed your eyes, one hand on your stomach and the other tucked beneath the pillow where the phone was still warm.

Downstairs, the half-packed hospital bag sat by the door, three baby outfits tucked inside because Craig had panicked and because maybe Andrew was right.

Maybe she might need them.

Maybe someday, when this was all a story you could tell without your voice shaking, you would tell your daughter about the day she scared everyone before she was even born.

About Craig swearing at socks.

About the monitor that sounded like a little horse.

About her father's voice over a prison phone, asking her to stay longer.

About how she kicked like she heard him.

About how she stayed.

You fell asleep before you could turn off the lamp.

In the quiet green room down the hall, the crib waited.

The duck onesie waited.

The hospital bag waited by the door.

And behind concrete and wire, Andrew Cody lay awake with one hand under his pillow, touching the folded picture of you in the nursery like proof.

He did not sleep for a long time.

But when he finally did, it was with the phone call still in his head.

Heartbeat like a little horse.

Baby moving.

You in bed.

Both of you okay.

For tonight, that had to be enough.

For tonight, it was.

Taglist - 

He was fracturing, and you could see the cracks spreading.

But you were one of the only people he trusted - maybe the only person he'd let see him vulnerable. It had taken months for him to let you in, to stop flinching when you touched him unexpectedly, to sleep in the same bed without jolting awake at every sound. You'd learned his patterns, his rituals, the things that grounded him when his mind started spiraling into dark places he couldn't control.

And you'd learned how to unravel him completely.

He needed release. Needed to let go of the iron control he maintained over every aspect of his life. And you were going to give it to him, force him to surrender in the only way he knew how. With you. Only with you.

You adjusted the angle of your phone, tilting your head to let your hair cascade over one shoulder. The first photo was almost innocent. You'd slipped out of your clothes slowly, deliberately, until you wore nothing but the late afternoon light. Your hand rested just below your collarbone, fingers splayed across your chest, concealing and revealing in equal measure. Your lips were parted slightly, eyes heavy-lidded as you gazed at the camera with unmistakable intent.

Click.

You reviewed the image, satisfaction curling warm in your belly. Perfect. Teasing. A promise of what was to come. This would get under his skin, make him obsess, make him check and recheck the photo until the details were burned into his brain.

The second photo required more boldness. You turned slightly, arching your back to emphasize the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass. Your hair fell forward over one shoulder, leaving your back bare and exposed. You looked over your shoulder at the camera, bottom lip caught between your teeth. The light caught the dip of your lower back, the soft roundness of your hips.

Click.

For the third, you lay back on the bed, the white sheets rumpled beneath you. You bent one knee, letting it fall to the side, your thighs parted just enough to suggest everything while showing nothing directly. One hand rested on your stomach, fingers pointing downward. Your breasts were fully visible now, nipples peaked in the cool air of the room. Your head was tilted back slightly, throat exposed, lips parted as though caught mid-gasp.

Click.

The fourth was bolder still. You brought your hand between your thighs, not quite touching, but close enough that the intent was unmistakable. Your other hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. Your eyes were closed in this one, face flushed with genuine arousal because thinking about Pope seeing these images, imagining his reaction. The way his breathing would change, the way his pupils would dilate, the way his control would start to slip - had your pulse racing and heat pooling low in your belly.

Click.

The final photo was pure provocation. You'd positioned yourself on your knees, sitting back on your heels, thighs spread wide. Both hands traced paths along your body - one at your throat, the other disappeared between your legs. Your mouth was open, head thrown back in ecstasy, and this time you'd actually touched yourself, let yourself feel the pleasure, so the expression on your face was raw and real and absolutely devastating.

Click.

You reviewed all five photos, your breathing slightly uneven, skin flushed and sensitive. These would destroy him. Absolutely wreck him. Shatter that carefully maintained control and force him to feel everything he kept locked down so tight. The thought made you smile - dangerous and satisfied and a little bit cruel.

Because you knew what this would do to him. You knew he'd obsess over every detail, check each photo dozens of times, memorize every curve and shadow. You knew his thoughts would spiral into dark, possessive places. You knew he'd need to lock himself away somewhere private, somewhere he could control, before he'd let himself fall apart.

And you knew he'd give you everything in return.

You opened your messages to Pope, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The first photo loaded, and you typed out a simple message:

Thinking about you.

Send.

You waited a moment before sending the second, letting anticipation build.

Wishing you were here.

Send.

Another moment. The final photo uploaded, and you bit your lip as you typed:

Need your hands on me.

Send.

The fourth came with:

Can't stop thinking about the way you touch me.

Send.

For the final photo, you let five full minutes pass, imagining him staring at his phone, jaw clenched, that dangerous intensity focused entirely on you, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn't control. Then:

This is what you do to me, Pope. Come home.

Send.

You set your phone down on the nightstand and waited, heart pounding, skin still tingling with arousal and anticipation.

________________________________________________________________

Pope was in the garage when his phone buzzed. He'd been working on the Jeep, trying to burn off some of the restless energy that had been eating at him all week. His hands were streaked with grease, knuckles scraped raw from wrestling with a stubborn bolt. The physical pain helped sometimes - grounded him when his thoughts started spiraling too fast, when the walls felt like they were closing in.

He'd checked the locks before coming out here, needing that control, that certainty.

The first photo loaded, and he went completely still.

Jesus Christ.

You were bare, beautiful, looking at the camera like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. His jaw tightened, and he wiped his hands roughly on a rag, unable to look away from the screen. The soft curve of your body, the way the light painted you in gold, the expression on your face - knowing, teasing, devastating.

His phone buzzed again.

His chest constricted. His breathing changed.

He stared at the photo for a long moment, then closed it and opened it again. Checked it. The details - the way your hair fell, the shadows on your skin, the look in your eyes. He needed to see it again. Needed to make sure it was real, that you were real, that this wasn't some trick his fractured mind was playing on him.

The second photo. Your back arched, ass on display, looking over your shoulder with your lip caught between your teeth. Pope's breathing became heavier, harsher. His jeans were suddenly too tight, and he adjusted himself with a rough palm, eyes locked on the screen.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice already rough and strained.

He checked the photo again. Zoomed in on your face, on the curve of your spine, on every detail. His mind was racing now, thoughts coming too fast - mine, she's mine, no one else gets to see this, no one else touches her, mine mine mine - and he could feel his control starting to fray at the edges.

The third photo arrived, and his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white. You spread out on the bed, thighs parted, completely exposed to him. His cock throbbed, straining painfully against his zipper, and he could feel something dark and possessive rising in his chest. You knew what you were doing. You always knew. You knew exactly how to get under his skin, how to make him lose his fucking mind.

He checked the photo again. And again. Studying every detail. Your hand on your stomach. Your breasts. The way your head was tilted back. He memorized every inch of you, obsessed over every shadow and curve.

When the fourth photo came through, Pope actually groaned aloud, the sound rough and guttural and almost pained in the empty garage. Your hand between your thighs, the other on your breast, face flushed with arousal. He could practically hear the sounds you'd make, the little gasps and moans that drove him absolutely insane, the way you'd say his name when he touched you just right.

His thoughts were spiraling now, dark and possessive and desperate. Need to touch you, need to taste you, need to make you come until you can't remember anyone else's name but mine, need to mark you so everyone knows you're mine, need you need you need you.

He was painfully hard now, his breathing harsh and uneven. He glanced toward the door - locked, he'd confirmed it, no one home - and then back at his phone. His hands were shaking slightly. He could feel himself losing control, could feel the volatility rising like a tide he couldn't hold back.

The final photo loaded, and Pope's control shattered completely.

You on your knees, thighs spread wide, hands on yourself, head thrown back in ecstasy. The message beneath it: This is what you do to me, Pope. Come home.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed, and something inside him snapped.

He checked the photo again, his breathing ragged and desperate. Then he was moving, shoving his phone in his pocket, stumbling toward the small office off the garage. He barely made it inside before slamming the door and locking it, confirming it was secure, to make sure it held.

The space was small, cramped, but it was private. Controlled. His.

He needed that. Needed to control his environment because he was about to lose control of everything else.

His hands shook as he pulled out his phone again, pulling up the photos. He stared at them, swiping through one by one, his breathing harsh and uneven in the quiet room. His other hand moved to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking and almost painfully sensitive.

Pope wrapped his hand around himself, grip almost too tight, and stroked once. The sensation shot through him like electricity, and he groaned, low and rough and desperate.

He checked the photos again, memorizing every detail, obsessing over every curve and shadow. His mind was racing - so beautiful, so perfect, mine, all mine, no one else gets to see this, no one else touches her - and he could feel himself spiraling, could feel the darkness mixing with the need.

Then he had an idea.

His thumb found the voice memo app, and he hit record with shaking fingers.

For a moment, he just breathed, harsh and uneven, trying to find words through the chaos in his head. Then:

"You have no idea what you do to me," he started, voice already husky and strained and cracking slightly at the edges. He stroked himself slowly, deliberately, his breathing audible in the quiet room. "These fucking photos... I can't - I can't stop looking at them. Can't stop checking them."

Another stroke, and he groaned, low and rough and almost pained. "You're so goddamn beautiful. Look at you." His voice dropped lower, became almost a growl, something dark and possessive bleeding through. "Spread out for me like that, touching yourself... You know what that does to me. You know."

His hand moved faster, and his breathing became more ragged, more desperate. The wet sound of his fist moving over his cock was obscene in the silence, and he didn't try to hide it. Let you hear what you did to him. Let you hear how completely you wrecked him.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word breaking on a moan. "That last one... Jesus, baby. On your knees for me, those thighs spread wide..." His voice cracked, not just from pleasure but from something deeper, something more vulnerable. "I've looked at it - I've looked at it so many times already. Can't stop. Can't fucking stop."

He pulled up the photos again with shaking fingers, swiping through them obsessively while his other hand worked his cock in steady, firm strokes. "The way you look at the camera," he continued, voice rough and breathless and edged with something almost desperate. "Like you know exactly what you're doing to me. Like you know I'm losing my fucking mind right now. Like you know I'd do anything for you."

A particularly intense wave of pleasure hit him, and Pope groaned deeply, the sound guttural and raw and almost anguished. "Shit... I can't stop looking at you. So perfect. So fucking perfect. Mine. You're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice was dark, dangerous, but underneath it was something fragile, something that sounded almost like a plea. Please be mine. Please don't leave. Please don't see how broken I am and run.

His breathing was coming in harsh pants now, his hand moving faster, grip tightening almost painfully. "I can see how wet you are in that last photo," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Can practically taste you. God, I want - I want my mouth on you. Want to make you come on my tongue until you're shaking. Until you can't remember anyone else. Just me. Only me."

Another groan, this one higher, more desperate, edged with something that sounded almost like a whimper. His hips were moving now, fucking into his fist, chasing the release building hot and urgent in his belly. But it wasn't just physical - it was emotional, psychological, a need so deep it terrified him.

"Want to feel you wrapped around my cock," he continued, voice strained and breaking. "So tight. So wet. So perfect. Fuck... I need you. I need…"

His voice cut off, and for a moment there was only harsh breathing, ragged and uneven. Then, quieter, more vulnerable: "I need you so much it scares me sometimes. The way you make me feel... I don't know how to - I can't -"

He couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't articulate the terror of needing someone this much, of letting someone see all his fractures and broken pieces and still wanting them to stay.

The wet sounds grew louder, faster, and his breathing became ragged gasps. "You're gonna pay for this," he managed, voice strained and breaking, trying to sound dangerous but coming out desperate instead. "Gonna make you come so many times you forget your own name. Gonna make you - fuck - gonna make you understand what you do to me. How much I -"

His voice cut off on a sharp inhale, and then he was moaning, deep and unrestrained and raw. "Close," he breathed, almost whimpering. "So fucking close. Keep looking at you and I - Jesus - I can't -"

He swiped to the final photo again with shaking fingers, you on your knees with your head thrown back, and that was it. His orgasm hit him like a freight train, and Pope's groan was long and guttural and almost a sob. "Fuck, baby, yes - please -"

His hand worked himself through it, hips jerking erratically, and the sounds he made were raw and unfiltered and completely unguarded - broken moans and harsh gasps and your name, repeated like a prayer, like a lifeline, like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. "God... fuck... yes... please don't leave me... please..."

The pleasure rolled through him in waves, intense and overwhelming and almost painful in its intensity, and he stroked himself through every pulse, every aftershock, until he was gasping and oversensitive and completely spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of his heavy breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet room. His hand was still wrapped loosely around his softening cock, and he was covered in his own release, but he couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could only feel the aftershocks and the terrifying vulnerability of what he'd just revealed.

Then, voice rough and raw and still slightly breathless, edged with something that sounded almost broken: "You wreck me. Completely fucking wreck me. I don't know - I don't know how you do it, but you do. You get inside my head and you just... you wreck me."

A pause, and his breathing hitched slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more vulnerable, almost childlike in its honesty: "I'm coming home. I need to see you. Need to touch you. Need to know you're real and you're mine and you're not going anywhere. Please don't go anywhere."

Another pause, and then his voice dropped to a dangerous rumble, the volatility creeping back in: "And when I get there... you better be ready for me. Because I'm gonna make you understand exactly what you do to me. Gonna make you feel it. All of it."

He ended the recording and sat there for a moment, head tilted back against the wall, chest heaving. His hand was still wrapped loosely around himself, and he felt raw, exposed, like he'd peeled back too many layers and shown too much.

But it was you. And you were the only person he trusted with this - with all of it. The darkness and the need and the desperate, terrifying vulnerability.

Pope cleaned himself up with shaking hands, tucked himself back into his jeans, and grabbed his phone. He stared at the recording for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the delete button. Part of him wanted to erase it, wanted to take back everything he'd just revealed.

But he didn't.

Instead, he pulled up your messages, attached the audio file, and typed with trembling fingers:

Listen to what you do to me. Be ready. I'm on my way.

Send.

He checked to make sure it sent. Then he was moving, grabbing his keys, already halfway to the door. The Jeep could wait. Everything could wait.

You were all that mattered. The only thing that mattered. The only person who could hold all his broken pieces together and not cut yourself on the edges.

He needed to get to you. Now.

________________________________________________________________

Your phone buzzed, and you grabbed it immediately, heart racing. Pope's name flashed on the screen with a new message and an audio file attachment.

Your breath caught.

With trembling fingers, you pressed play and brought the phone to your ear.

You knew what this meant - knew what it cost him to send you something like this. Pope didn't do vulnerable. Didn't let people see his fractures. But with you, he did. With you, he let himself fall apart.

His voice filled your ear - rough, husky, strained with arousal but also with something deeper, something more fragile. "You have no idea what you do to me. These fucking photos... I can't - I can't stop looking at them. Can't stop checking them."

The groan that followed made your chest constrict. You could hear everything in his voice: his breathing, the wet sounds of his hand on himself, the raw need, but also the desperation, the obsessive edge, the way his control was fracturing. This was Pope—the most guarded, volatile person you knew—completely undone.

"You're so goddamn beautiful. Look at you."

Your free hand pressed to your chest as you listened, overwhelmed by the intimacy of this moment. His moans grew more desperate, more unrestrained, more vulnerable, and you felt tears beginning to prick at your eyes.

"Fuck... that last one... Jesus, baby. On your knees for me, those thighs spread wide... I've looked at it—I've looked at it so many times already. Can't stop. Can't fucking stop."

His voice cracked, and you whimpered softly, understanding what this meant. You could hear it—the obsessive checking, the way his mind was spiraling, the darkness mixing with the need. The sounds he made were devastating—rough groans and breathless curses and your name spoken like a prayer, like a lifeline. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"Like you know I'm losing my fucking mind right now. Like you know I'd do anything—anything—for you."

The desperation in his voice made your chest tighten painfully. This wasn't just about sex. This was about trust, about vulnerability, about him letting you see all the broken pieces he kept hidden from everyone else. This was Pope giving you everything.

"I can see how wet you are... Can practically taste you..."

You closed your eyes, listening intently to every sound—the rhythm of his breathing, the wet sounds of his pleasure, the raw honesty in every word. But you were also listening—really listening—to every crack in his voice, every vulnerable confession.

"I need you. I need—" His voice broke, and there was a pause filled only with harsh breathing. Then, quieter, more vulnerable: "I need you so much it scares me sometimes. The way you make me feel... I don't know how to—I can't—"

Tears streamed down your face now. He was giving you everything—all his darkness and need and terrifying vulnerability. The fact that he could admit this, that he could let you hear him like this, meant everything.

"You're gonna pay for this. Gonna make you come so many times you forget your own name. Gonna make you - fuck -gonna make you understand what you do to me. How much I -"

And then he was coming, his groan long and guttural and almost a sob, and you pressed your hand to your mouth, tears flowing freely because you understood - you understood what this meant, what he was giving you. The raw, unfiltered truth of how much you mattered to him.

The audio continued - his heavy breathing, the broken sounds, and then his voice, raw and vulnerable: "You wreck me. Completely fucking wreck me. I don't know -I don't know how you do it, but you do. You get inside my head and you just... you wreck me."

A pause, and his breathing hitched. "I'm coming home. I need to see you. Need to touch you. Need to know you're real and you're mine and you're not going anywhere. Please don't go anywhere."

Your chest tightened, and you pressed your hand to your mouth, overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his voice. The vulnerability. The need.

Then his voice dropped, dangerous again: "And when I get there... you better be ready for me. Because I'm gonna make you understand exactly what you do to me. Gonna make you feel it. All of it."

The recording ended, and you sat there trembling, tears on your cheeks, your heart aching with the weight of what he'd just shared with you. It wasn't just physical need - it was emotional, the desperate desire to hold him, to show him you weren't going anywhere, that you could handle all of him, even the broken parts.

Your phone buzzed with his text: Listen to what you do to me. Be ready. I'm on my way.

You smiled through your tears, tender and certain and completely committed, and typed back:

I'm not going anywhere. I'm yours. Come home.

Because you knew when Pope walked through that door, he was going to make good on every single promise in that recording. And you were going to show him that you could handle it - all of it. The intensity and the darkness and the desperate, vulnerable need.

You were going to show him that he didn't have to be afraid of breaking with you.

Because you'd hold all his pieces together, no matter how sharp the edges.

The nursery smelled like paint.

Not strongly anymore.

The windows had been open all afternoon, letting in warm air and traffic noise and the distant sound of someone mowing a lawn two houses over. The sharpest edge of the smell had faded by sunset, leaving something softer behind.

Clean walls.

New beginnings.

A room becoming something.

You stood in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame and the other resting on the curve of your stomach.

Soft green.

Not soup green.

Not mint that looked too sweet under the light.

Not the gray-green that had made the room feel cold.

This one was right.

Soft. Warm. Quiet.

Like trees, Andrew had said.

You had rolled the first coat on yourself until your back started aching, then Craig had shown up with takeout, painter's tape, and an expression that said he was not going to argue about whether or not pregnant women should be climbing step stools.

He had not argued.

He had simply taken the roller out of your hand.

Deran had arrived an hour later, complained about the fumes, opened another window, and spent twenty minutes pretending he did not care about the tiny duck onesie folded on top of the dresser.

Then he had picked it up when he thought you were not looking.

You had looked.

Of course you had.

The room was not finished yet.

There was no crib assembled. The box leaned against one wall, still unopened, because the instructions looked like something designed to break the human spirit. There was a secondhand rocking chair near the window that you had found online and insisted was perfect even though the cushion needed recovering. A small stack of baby books sat on the floor beside it.

A lamp.

A folded blanket.

A few tiny clothes hung in the closet, spaced too far apart on hangers because there weren't enough of them yet.

Still, it was a room now.

Her room.

You stepped inside slowly.

Your daughter shifted beneath your palm.

A slow, firm roll, as if she was taking stock of the place too.

"What do you think?" you whispered.

The baby kicked.

You looked down at your stomach and smiled.

"Yeah. I think so too."

Behind you, the floorboards creaked.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Craig was standing in the hallway, one shoulder braced against the wall, a beer bottle loose in one hand. He had been quieter than usual all afternoon. Not uncomfortable exactly, but careful. Like the room had made him realize something he did not know what to do with.

"It looks good," he said.

You smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He looked around, then nodded once. "Not soup."

You laughed. "High praise."

"That other green was bad."

"It was terrible."

"Looked like hospital pudding."

You wrinkled your nose. "That is worse than soup."

"Wasn't wrong."

You looked back at the walls.

Soft green in the last of the evening light.

Andrew's green.

Your throat tightened without warning.

Craig noticed.

He noticed more than people gave him credit for.

"You taking a picture?" he asked.

You blinked and glanced back at him. "What?"

"For him."

Your hand tightened slightly over your stomach.

You looked around the room again.

The green walls. The rocking chair. The tiny clothes. The dresser with the duck onesie laid on top like it had earned pride of place.

"I was going to take one of the room," you said.

Craig nodded. "You should be in it."

Your heart gave a strange little pull.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I look tired."

"You're pregnant."

"That is not the same thing as looking good."

He gave you a flat look.

You sighed. "Do not look at me like that."

"You're growing a whole person. I'm not gonna tell you what to do, but maybe stop being weird."

You stared at him.

Then you laughed.

It came out too soft, too touched.

Craig looked mildly embarrassed by himself and took a drink.

"You don't have to send it if you hate it," he said.

You looked down at yourself.

Andrew's black T-shirt stretched over your stomach. Leggings speckled faintly with paint near one knee. Bare feet. Hair coming loose from the clip at the back of your head.

You did look tired.

But you also looked pregnant.

Really pregnant.

Not like the visits, where bad lighting and the angle of the booth and the counter between you made everything feel half-hidden.

Here, in the soft green room, with your hand resting over the baby, there was no hiding anything.

You looked like someone's mother.

The thought hit so hard you had to breathe through it.

Craig softened. "You okay?"

You nodded quickly.

"Yeah," you said. "Yeah, I just..."

You stopped.

You did not know how to explain it.

How strange it was to become visibly changed in a house where the person you wanted most was only present in objects and phone calls and paper folded near your bed.

How your body had moved forward with the pregnancy whether your heart was ready or not.

How sometimes you caught sight of yourself in the mirror and startled because there she was.

A mother.

A woman waiting.

A woman carrying a daughter who kicked at her father's voice over prison phones and kept moving during every silence like she was determined to fill them.

Craig did not make you explain.

He just set his beer down on the hallway floor and pulled out his phone.

"Stand by the chair," he said.

You gave him a look. "You're very bossy."

"Runs in the family."

That made something in your chest ache.

You moved to stand beside the rocking chair.

The light from the window caught the side of your face and the roundness of your stomach. You rested one hand beneath the bump without thinking, the other above it, framing the place where your daughter lived.

Craig looked at you through the phone screen.

For a second, his expression shifted.

Grief maybe.

Or love.

Or both.

With the Codys, they often looked the same.

"You look..." He stopped.

You raised your eyebrows. "Careful."

He huffed. "I was gonna say nice."

"You looked like you were about to say something emotional."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely almost did."

"Turn a little."

You laughed, but you turned.

The baby kicked.

You looked down.

Craig took the photo.

Then another.

And another.

"Did you just take a burst?" you asked.

"You blink weird."

"I do not blink weird."

"You do in pictures."

"I'm confiscating your beer."

"Worth it."

You walked over and took the phone from him.

The first picture was blurry.

The second was too bright.

The third made you go still.

You were standing in the green room, looking down at your stomach with one hand curved over the baby. Your hair was loose around your face. Andrew's shirt hung soft over your body. Behind you, the rocking chair sat by the window, and on the dresser the little duck onesie was just visible.

It was not perfect.

It was not posed.

It looked real.

You stared at it until your vision blurred.

Craig shifted beside you, suddenly awkward. "Bad?"

You shook your head.

"No," you whispered. "No, it's..."

You swallowed.

"He'll like it," Craig said.

You looked up at him.

His voice had gone quieter.

"He will," he added, like he needed you to believe it.

You nodded, because you did.

Andrew would like it.

No.

That was not right.

Andrew would keep it.

There was a difference.

You sent the photo to be printed the next morning.

Two copies.

One for Andrew.

One for you.

The one for you went on the fridge beside the scan photo, tucked under a magnet shaped like a sun.

The one for Andrew went into an envelope with a short note.

You rewrote the note six times.

The first version sounded too cheerful.

The second sounded too sad.

The third mentioned the paint too much.

The fourth made you cry.

In the end, you wrote:

Her room is green now.

Your green.

Craig took this after we finished painting. Deran pretended he didn't care about the duck onesie and then touched it like it was made of glass.

She kicked when I stood by the chair.

I think she likes it.

I hope you do too.

You signed your name.

Then, after a moment, you added:

I miss you in this room, but it still has you in it.

You folded the note before you could change your mind.

Andrew got the envelope on a Thursday.

He knew it was yours before he saw the handwriting.

He always did.

There were things he had learned to recognize in here because there were so few good things allowed through the walls. Your handwriting was one of them. The way the letters leaned slightly. The way you pressed too hard on the downstrokes. The small curve of your name on the return address.

He took the envelope back to his bunk instead of opening it in the common area.

He did that with your letters now.

At first, he had told himself it was because he did not want anyone looking. Because things got taken in here. Used. Mocked. Ruined.

But that was not all of it.

Some things were too soft to open under fluorescent lights with other men shouting at the television.

Some things deserved quiet.

He sat on the edge of the bunk and opened the envelope carefully.

Not tearing.

Never tearing.

Inside was the note.

And a photo.

The photo slid out first.

Andrew caught it against his palm.

For a second, he did not understand what he was looking at.

Then he did.

The room.

Green walls.

The chair by the window.

The little dresser.

The duck onesie.

And you.

Standing in the middle of it all.

Pregnant.

Visibly, unmistakably pregnant.

His hand tightened around the edge of the photo.

The sound in the room faded.

Men talking outside the cell. Someone laughing in the corridor. A door closing somewhere down the tier.

Gone.

All of it gone.

There was only the picture.

You were wearing his shirt.

That was the first thing that hit him.

His black T-shirt, stretched over the round of your stomach, soft from years of washing and sleeping and him leaving it on the floor even though you hated when he did that.

You had one hand under the baby and one above, looking down at her with this expression he had never seen on your face before.

Or maybe he had.

Maybe it had been there in pieces.

At the first scan.

During calls.

In the visiting room when the baby kicked.

But here it was whole.

You looked tired.

You looked soft.

You looked like home.

Andrew's chest tightened so sharply he had to lean forward, elbows on his knees.

His eyes moved over every inch of the photo.

The green.

The chair.

The paint on your leggings.

The curve of your stomach.

The way your hand rested there like you were already holding her.

His daughter was in that picture.

Not as a scan.

Not as a tiny grainy shape he had to squint at.

There.

Beneath your hands.

Inside you.

Growing in a room he had only imagined.

He lifted his thumb to the edge of the photo, stopping before touching your face.

He did not want to smear it.

He read the note next.

Once.

Twice.

The line about Deran made him huff softly through his nose.

He could picture it too clearly. Deran pretending not to care. Craig pretending he had not noticed. You noticing everything, because of course you did.

Then Andrew reached the last line.

I miss you in this room, but it still has you in it.

He stopped.

His throat worked.

He read it again.

The room still has you in it.

His green.

His shirt.

His daughter.

You had done that.

You had taken a room he could not stand in and left space for him anyway.

Not empty space.

Not a wound.

A place.

Andrew pressed the note against his mouth.

His eyes burned.

He hated crying in here.

Not because crying was weak.

He had stopped believing that, at least with you.

He hated it because this place made everything private feel like contraband.

But the tears came anyway.

Quiet.

Hot.

Unavoidable.

He looked back at the photo.

You looked like a mother.

The thought hit him so hard he almost could not breathe.

Not because he had not known.

He knew.

He knew every time you told him about nausea and cravings and the baby kicking. He knew every time you sent scan photos and wrote appointment notes and described the way your body was changing.

But knowing and seeing were different.

You looked like a mother.

His wife.

His baby's mother.

The woman wearing his shirt in their daughter's green room.

Andrew bowed his head, holding the photo in both hands.

For a long time, he just sat there.

Not spiraling.

Not punishing himself.

Just feeling it.

Letting the good thing hurt because it was good.

Letting himself want.

After a while, he tucked the note beneath the folded blanket on his bunk and kept the photo in his hand.

He should put it somewhere safe.

He knew that.

He did not.

He carried it folded carefully inside his shirt pocket for the rest of the day.

The phone rang at 8:11 that night.

You were in the nursery again.

Not doing anything useful.

Just sitting in the rocking chair with one foot tucked under you and the other on the floor, moving gently back and forth because the chair creaked in a way that was almost soothing if you did not think too hard about how it needed oil.

Your hand rested over your stomach.

The baby had been quiet for most of the evening, then dramatically active the second you decided to sit down.

Naturally.

The phone rang again.

You grabbed it from the dresser.

"Hello?"

The automated voice began.

You pressed one before it finished.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

Something about his voice made you sit up a little.

"Hey."

"You in the room?"

You looked around, surprised. "Yeah."

"How'd you know?"

"Chair creaks."

You glanced down at the rocking chair.

"You can hear that?"

"Yeah."

"It needs oil."

"Mm."

"What does mm mean?"

"It means don't let Craig fix it."

You laughed. "Craig can fix a chair."

"Not quietly."

"That's true."

There was a pause.

A different kind of pause.

Not the usual one, where Andrew was collecting his thoughts or swallowing down something sharp. This one felt full already.

"You got the picture," you said softly.

"Yeah."

Your hand tightened around the phone.

"And?"

He did not answer right away.

In the background, you could hear the hard little sounds of his world. Voices. Movement. A guard speaking to someone too sharply.

Then Andrew said, "You look like a mom."

Your breath stopped.

You looked down at your stomach.

The words slid into you gently and then opened everywhere.

"Oh."

He was quiet.

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

No one had said it like that.

People had said you looked good. Glowing, even, which was a lie and also rude considering you had thrown up three times in one morning during week eleven. People had said you were showing. Getting big. Carrying well. Looking tired. Looking beautiful.

But Andrew said it like he was seeing you.

Not the pregnancy.

Not the bump.

You.

A mother.

You pressed a hand over your mouth.

Andrew's voice changed immediately. "Bad?"

You laughed wetly. "No."

"You're crying?"

"Yes."

"Bad?"

"No."

He was silent for a beat.

Then, suspicious, "Good crying?"

You smiled through tears. "Good crying."

"You always say that."

"Because you keep doing things."

"What things?"

"Saying things that wreck me."

"I said you look like a mom."

"I know."

"That was bad?"

"No, Andrew." Your voice shook. "It was perfect."

He went quiet again.

You could almost see him looking down, embarrassed, not knowing what to do with praise.

So you helped him.

"I didn't realize I needed to hear that."

His breathing softened.

"You do," he said.

"I do?"

"You look like her mom."

Your eyes closed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The baby kicked beneath your palm.

You laughed softly.

"She agrees."

"She moving?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Put me on."

You smiled and moved the phone to your stomach.

"He's here," you whispered.

Andrew was quiet for a second.

Then, softer than the prison around him deserved, he said, "Hey, baby girl."

The baby shifted.

You looked down, tears still wet on your cheeks.

"I saw your room," he said.

Your throat tightened.

"It's good. Your mom did good."

You pressed your lips together.

"The green's right," he said. "Not soup."

A laugh slipped out of you.

Andrew paused, hearing it, then continued.

"And the chair's loud. I can hear it. We'll fix it."

We.

You closed your eyes.

We would fix it.

Someday. Somehow. Maybe not soon enough. Maybe not in any way that matched the picture you used to have of how this would go.

But we.

Your daughter kicked the phone.

You gasped.

Andrew stopped. "What?"

"She kicked you."

Silence.

Then his voice came back smaller. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Because of the chair?"

"Probably because you insulted the chair."

"I said we'd fix it."

"You called it loud."

"It is loud."

You laughed again and brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was quiet.

You could feel him trying to hold the moment without crushing it.

"You really like it?" you asked.

"The room?"

"The picture."

He breathed out.

"Yeah."

Just one word.

But it carried so much weight you had to lean back against the chair.

"Yeah?" you asked again, softer.

"I kept it with me."

Your lips parted.

"What?"

"The picture."

"All day?"

"Yeah."

Your chest ached.

"Andrew."

"Didn't want to put it down."

You closed your eyes.

The room blurred green around you.

"You don't have to say anything," he said.

That made you laugh and cry at once. "I wasn't going to say anything useful."

"That's okay."

"I'm just..." You swallowed. "I'm glad you have it."

His voice went quieter. "Me too."

You looked at the dresser, where the second copy of the photo sat propped against a small lamp.

It looked different now that he had seen it.

Like the room had changed again.

Like the photograph had somehow built a bridge and left one end in his pocket.

"Craig took it," you said.

"I know."

"You read the note."

"Yeah."

"He was weirdly gentle about it."

"Craig?"

"Yeah."

Andrew made a small sound. "He can be."

"I know."

"He say anything stupid?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"He said I blink weird."

Andrew was silent.

Then, "You do."

Your mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"

"In pictures."

"I do not."

"You do."

"I am carrying your child."

"That doesn't change how you blink."

You laughed so suddenly the baby moved.

"You two are horrible."

"Two?"

"You and Craig."

Andrew's voice softened. "Not the baby?"

"Never the baby."

"She's innocent?"

"For now."

"For now," he echoed.

The smile in his voice nearly undid you.

You rocked gently in the chair, letting the creak settle beneath the conversation.

"Deran really did touch the onesie like it was made of glass," you said.

"I can see that."

"He thought I didn't notice."

"You notice everything."

"So do you."

"Not everything."

"Enough."

There was a pause.

Then he asked, "What else is in the room?"

You looked around, smiling softly.

"You saw most of it."

"Tell me anyway."

So you did.

You told him about the dresser, which stuck on the second drawer unless you pulled it from the left side. The little stack of books near the chair. The blanket folded over the arm, pale yellow and soft enough that you had pressed it to your face in the store like a lunatic.

You told him about the crib box still leaning unopened against the wall.

Andrew made a low sound at that.

"What?"

"I don't like that it's not done."

"You hate instructions."

"I can still build a crib."

"I know."

"Craig shouldn't do it."

"Craig can build a crib."

"He can build it wrong."

"You are very hard on your brother."

"He doesn't read instructions."

"Neither do you."

"I look at them."

"You glare at them."

"That counts."

You laughed again, and he went quiet to hear it.

The chair creaked.

The baby shifted.

Outside, night pressed against the windows.

Inside, the green room held his voice.

For a few minutes, it was almost enough.

"What else?" he asked.

"There's a little lamp."

"What kind?"

"Cream shade. Wooden base."

"Good."

"You have lamp opinions now?"

"For her room, yeah."

Your smile softened.

"Okay. Lamp has been approved."

"What else?"

"Closet has a few clothes."

"The ducks?"

"On the dresser."

"Good."

"You really love the ducks."

"I don't love the ducks."

"You ask about them a lot."

"They're there."

"So is the crib box."

"The crib box is a problem."

"The ducks are beloved."

"They're ducks."

"You are such a liar."

He huffed softly.

Then, after a moment, "They looked small in the picture."

"The onesie?"

"Yeah."

"It is small."

"How small?"

You looked at it on the dresser, folded carefully.

"Tiny."

He breathed out.

"Like..." You reached over and picked it up, holding it against your stomach. "Like I don't understand how a person fits in it."

Andrew said nothing.

You could hear his breath.

"Too much?" you asked gently.

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He swallowed audibly.

Then, quieter, "Tell me."

Your throat tightened.

So you did.

You told him how the sleeves were barely longer than your hand. How the ducks were stitched in soft yellow thread, not printed. How there were tiny snaps down the front and one of them was shaped slightly wrong, which for some reason had made you love it more.

Andrew listened like you were giving him instructions for something sacred.

When you finished, he said, "Send a picture of that too."

"The onesie?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"And the chair."

"You already saw the chair."

"I want another."

You smiled. "Okay."

"And the books."

"The books?"

"I want to know what she has."

Your eyes burned.

"Okay."

"And you."

You stopped.

The chair rocked once beneath you.

"What?"

His voice was quiet.

"Send more of you."

You looked down.

"Andrew."

"Not for..." He stopped, frustrated by the words. "Not like that."

"I know."

"I just want to see."

Your hand moved over your stomach.

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"Pregnant me?"

"All of you."

Your breath caught.

Andrew went quiet like he regretted saying too much.

You did not let him take it back.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Only if you want."

"I do."

He exhaled softly.

"I miss seeing you change," he admitted.

It could have become that old ache.

The one both of you knew too well.

But he did not make it into blame.

He did not make it into punishment.

He just said it as a truth.

So you answered with one.

"I miss being seen by you."

The line went quiet.

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

Then Andrew said, "I see you."

Your eyes closed.

"I know."

"In the picture. In the visits. Even when you think you look tired."

You smiled through tears. "I am tired."

"I know."

"Very tired."

"I know."

"But?"

"But you're still you."

You had to press your lips together.

The baby moved slowly beneath your hand, as if she was settling into the sound of him.

"You say these things like they're small," you whispered.

"They are small."

"They're not."

He did not argue.

That was how you knew he heard you.

The call timer beeped in the background.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?" you asked.

"Five."

You leaned your head back against the chair cushion and looked around the room.

Five minutes.

Five minutes to hold a whole life together over a prison phone.

You had become good at it.

You hated that you had become good at it.

"What are you doing with the picture?" you asked.

"Keeping it."

"I know that."

"With the others."

"By your bunk?"

"Yeah."

You pictured it.

The scan photos.

The gender note.

The letters.

Now the picture of you in the nursery.

A little wall of proof.

Your heart twisted.

"Is that allowed?"

"So far."

"Andrew."

"It's fine."

"That is not an answer."

"I'll keep it safe."

You believed that.

With him, that meant something almost frightening.

He would keep it safe.

From men, from guards, from damp corners, from his own hands if he thought touching it too much might wear it away.

"I have my copy on the fridge," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Beside the scan."

He was quiet for a second.

"Good."

"The sun magnet is holding it up."

"The weird yellow one?"

"It is not weird."

"It has a face."

"All suns have faces in magnet form."

"No."

"You are anti-whimsy."

"I married you."

"That means you married into whimsy."

He made that almost-laugh again.

You smiled.

Then the baby gave one hard kick under your ribs.

You winced.

Andrew heard it.

"What?"

"She kicked hard."

"She okay?"

"Yes. She's just violent."

"She gets that from you."

"From me?"

"You throw pillows."

"At you."

"Still counts."

"You deserved those pillows."

"Probably."

You laughed softly, rubbing circles over your stomach.

"She's very awake now."

"Because of me?"

"Probably."

There was a pause.

Then he asked, "Can I tell her goodnight?"

Your face softened.

"Yeah."

You moved the phone back to your stomach.

"Okay," you whispered. "She's listening."

Andrew's voice came through low and careful.

"Hey, baby girl."

The baby shifted.

Your throat tightened.

"I saw your picture today," he said.

You closed your eyes.

"You look like your mom right now. I can tell."

Your face crumpled.

"And your room's green. She got it right."

You pressed your free hand over your mouth.

"I'm gonna need you to be nicer to her ribs," he said. "She says you're being violent. I believe her."

A wet laugh slipped out of you.

Andrew paused, then continued, voice softer.

"She misses me in that room."

Your laughter faded.

"But she said I'm still in it."

You could barely breathe.

"So I'm there too, okay?" he said. "In the green. In the shirt. In the ducks, apparently."

You laughed again through tears.

"And every time she sits in that loud chair, I'm gonna hear it."

The baby kicked.

You gasped softly.

Andrew stopped. "Was that her?"

"Yes."

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"She kicked again."

His breath caught.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"For the chair?"

"Maybe for the ducks."

"Not the ducks."

"Definitely the ducks."

He huffed, but his voice was warm.

The timer beeped again.

"One minute," he said.

You closed your eyes.

"Okay."

You hated how small the word sounded.

Andrew was quiet.

Then he said, "Send another picture."

"I will."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Of you?"

"Yes."

"And the room."

"Yes."

"And the duck thing."

You smiled. "Yes."

He breathed out.

"Okay."

You rocked gently.

The chair creaked.

Andrew went still on the other end.

You knew because the silence changed.

"You hear it?" you asked.

"Yeah."

You smiled through tears.

"Good."

For the last few seconds, neither of you spoke.

You just rocked slowly in the green room, letting the creak of the chair travel through the phone line to wherever he was standing.

A small sound.

An ordinary sound.

A home sound.

Then Andrew said, "I love you."

"I love you too."

"And her."

"And her."

The line clicked.

Silence.

You lowered the phone from your ear and kept rocking.

The room stayed green around you.

The baby shifted beneath your palm.

On the dresser, the duck onesie waited.

On the fridge downstairs, your copy of the photo sat beneath the smiling sun magnet.

And somewhere behind concrete and wire, Andrew Cody had the other one.

Proof.

Not that everything was okay.

Not that it didn't hurt.

Not that the empty side of the bed was any less empty.

But proof that the life you were building had not left him behind.

Proof that his daughter had a room.

Proof that you were becoming her mother.

Proof that home could still reach him, even there.

You rested your head against the chair cushion and looked out at the dark window.

"Your dad likes the green," you whispered.

The baby rolled slowly beneath your hand.

You smiled.

"I know," you said softly. "I knew he would."

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