HARPER

That first night at Jaxon’s I wake with a start. Looking around the loft where I was sleeping with him beside me, in his old tee shirt, his breathing heavy in my ear, I wonder if I made a series of terrible choices that will never get me back on the straight and narrow. Maybe I’ve fallen so far off the deep end that I’ll never be able to climb back up and stand.

But then I place my hand on the bump beneath my navel, and I remember that being here in Jaxon’s bed gives me comfort, a sense of peace, and that if I want to experience a smooth pregnancy, I need those things. I need them for my babies.

Jaxon unconsciously repositions himself, deep in slumber, and wraps his arms around me. I let go of the breath I’ve been holding and close my eyes. In his arms I sleep; in his arms I dream of a life I never knew I might want, but suddenly have.

JAX

The first day she fried me eggs and made homemade biscuits.

The second day she baked me a dozen chocolate chip cookies.

The third day she whipped up meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

The fourth day she slid a pan of cinnamon rolls into the oven.

Today, the fifth day, I swear I’ve gained five pounds and tell her we need to drink smoothies or some shit.

She just laughs.

And then batters some chicken to fry.

HARPER

I may not know how to balance a checkbook or change the oil. But I do know how to cook and clean.

I polish every wood surface in that cabin. Which is saying an awful lot.

I wash the clothes, fold the clothes, put away the clothes.

I make the bed.

I bathe the dog, and brush him, too.

I spray Windex on the dirty windows, making them clear as the mountain days.

I watch Jaxon out of those newly cleaned windows.

Watch him chop wood, his shirt off, his muscles taut as he swings an axe over his shoulder.

Watch him wipe his brow with the corner of his shirt, wipe away sweat and dirt. Watch him stack piles of wood for the fire without pause.

It’s usually at this point that I stop whatever chore I’m working on and beg him to come inside ... come inside me.

He always agrees.

He likes to whistle while drying dishes. He loves his dog and his mom and his dad. He is jealous that Dean gets to do what he wants in town and he hates that his choices landed him here.

He remembers dates precisely. He thinks Buck, the guy who delivers the boxes of clothes Jax ordered for me, is an asshat, for no real reason. He likes it when I belly laugh, and he kisses my stomach every night before we go to bed.

He doesn’t press me about my plans, so I don’t press him either.

He makes my heart pitter-patter when he nuzzles my neck. He makes me believe in the possibility of falling in love with a stranger who’s suddenly become my entire world.

He watches me when he thinks I’m not looking.

There’s a question on the tip of his tongue. A question he hasn’t asked.

I’m scared he’ll ask me something I don’t want to answer.

I’m more scared that he won’t ask me anything at all.

JAX

She likes to wake early and take long walks. She likes coffee with cream and showers not-too-hot. She likes the smell of the wood burning in the fireplace, and when Jameson curls up at her feet.

She hates cats. She hates seafood. She hates fighting.

I learned that the hard way when we were playing a game of motherfucking SCRABBLE, and I thought a word was a word that wasn’t.

She doesn’t know pop-culture references like Brangelina, any of the Beatles’ songs, and has never watched Ghostbusters. She resents her sheltered childhood, but loves it when I explain the reasons Star Wars is so fucking great.

She is clueless and bewildered and beautiful and brave. She is over her head in a million ways and I have no clue how she’s going to do this next part—raising three children—but she doesn’t seem to shy away from expanding her world. I think the task is too large for even both of us, together.

She tells me of her church family. Of potlucks and bible studies and prayer meetings. She tells me how she memorized entire books of the bible and how her home was so full of people. How caring for them was her favorite thing to do.

I know she’ll be a good mom, but she and I becoming a family? It seems impossible. There isn’t enough time for us both to grow up enough to be all those things at once. Mother and father and husband and wife.

A few months ago I was a bad boy, run out of town, chopping motherfucking wood. She was a virgin, about to marry a man who planned on telling her how to dress, eat, sleep ... be.

I don’t want to tell Harper what to do. That’s not my fucking job.

Besides, she knows a lot of what she likes without me giving her any hints.

For example, she likes every position we fuck in.

So, I tickle her pussy with my beard until she drenches me with her juice.

I suck her clit until she gets wet all over me, and then I press my tongue in deeper until she pours out her release.

I kiss every inch of her skin until she writhes underneath me, begging me to fuck her.

I do.

Every day.

For four weeks straight.