The garden breathes around us—soft, unhurried, alive with the quiet rhythm of late afternoon. Leaves rustle in the low breeze, their whispers threading through the air like half-remembered secrets, delicate and fleeting. Faint sunlight filters through the branches, falling in scattered gold across the grass and the couch where I sit.
I lean back into the cushions, one hand resting loosely on the round swell of my belly—a weight that has become as familiar as my own heartbeat, as constant as the breath in my lungs.
Silas sits beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. His hand is wrapped around mine, our fingers intertwined in a way that feels both possessive and tender. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His presence alone is enough—a warmth that doesn't demand attention but refuses to be ignored.
His thumb moves in slow, absent circles against my skin, a rhythm he doesn't seem to notice.
Sum sits across from us.
