Liam fumbles with his tie in the mirror, the silk flashing dark and blue. Not like that. Let me do it. He laughs and turns to face me. The tie slips loose the first time. My fingers pause, then remember the knot. Before I can think, lips press against my forehead, soft enough to linger even when he moves away. The room is filled with steam and the scent of something sweet, maybe flowers, the kind that wilt too fast. The ring on my hand is heavier than expected, catching the light when I turn.
The room tilts softly, matching the bottle as the waiter fills my glass. Giacomo’s, where our first date unfolded in nervous laughter and spilled wine, we now toast to our first year as husband and wife. Liam’s fingers trace circles on my wrist. I touched the rim and pulled back. Don’t drink. I don’t know why. His eyebrow lifts in that way that means, tell me. We’re
pregnant. The news settles between us, and before I add anything more, the chair legs scrape across the restaurant floor. He’s standing, tall and broad above me, hands framing my face, laughing once, before drawing me into him.
Time skips. It always does, right at the part I want to hold.
The house hums with movement, echoing softly, unfinished in a way that feels temporary and permanent at once. Boxes line the wall, his handwriting slanted across them: Office, Kitchen, Nursery. The counter feels cool under my palms when I’m lifted onto it, like I’ve been there before. His hand spreads across my stomach and stays there, steady, waiting for something to answer. My name leaves his lips, soft and certain, lingering in the room after he doesn’t.
I wake to the quiet.
Morning light stretches across the bed. I roll toward him without opening my eyes, arm reaching for the familiar weight, the heat, the shape of him.
Only cold sheets meet my hand.
Sarah Snedeker is a student at Central Connecticut State University