“Such a baby,” coos the object of my endless obsession and the reason I’m here to begin with.

A long strand of pale hair falls over my shoulder. I give it a little tug until she presents her cheek for me to kiss.

“I told you that you’re not allowed to read my journals until they’re at least a year old.”

“Because you think that given enough time, I won’t be offended by the shit you write. And I’ve reminded you on several occasions that your reasoning is bullshit. I’m still pissed about the Maldives incident.”

I rock back in my desk chair, tilting my head to see her face. She’s got the stern expression down pat, but I’ve always been able to see right through her. There’s amusement in her selkie-dark eyes.

Playing along, I offer my most innocent mien for her viewing pleasure. “For the thousandth time, pet, when you asked me to pack your mac, I thought you meant a raincoat. Despite what I said in my journal, I assure you it was only after the fact that I realized you meant your computer. Where I’m from, macs are waterproof jackets.”

Iris knows I’m lying, of course, and her lips do a precious little dance as she tries not to smile.

“Such a prick.”

I snatch her hand and bring it to my lips. “Your prick, love.”

And I am. I’m hers with every fiber of my being, every molecule of my earthly flesh, and every fleck of stardust in my immortal soul.

I trail kisses up her wrist, reveling in the pulse that flutters and speeds beneath my mouth.

“I have to get to my seminar, James.”

“Fuck the seminar,” I murmur, snaking a hand around her hip. She slaps my fingers away before I reach her ass.

I’m not giving up yet.

“You could skip every remaining class and they’d still fall over themselves to give you a PhD. You’re an internationally bestselling author with several prestigious awards under your belt. Stay home.”

Rufus whines in agreement from his cozy spot before the crackling fireplace. Atta boy!

“I feel fat today.”

I’m so used to the abrupt mental shifts by now that it only takes a few seconds for me to change gears. Abandoning my physical need for her and ignoring the angry customer in my pants, I kiss her hand a final time.

Meeting her eyes, I take the gift of her vulnerability and give her the only thing I can right now. Words.

“Little muse, you’re a beautiful fucking butterfly, remember?”

She groans. “I’m not a butterfly, I’m a flying rodent. And I’m not little—I’m a house!”

I can almost feel the quicksand rising around my ankles. But I’m armed for battle. I’ve got this. I’ve got her.

“Iris Mae Elliot, you are the most ravishing woman in the world. And you’re growing the greatest writer in generations in your luscious belly.”

She gives me a tentative smile and rubs her palms over her huge stomach. And I won’t lie—it’s bloody massive. I’ve managed to keep to myself how proud I am of that fact. I’ll let her read it a year from now, when her head’s back on straight.

On second thought, maybe I’ll hide that particular journal for a decade or three.

Not privy to my thoughts, my lovely wife beams happily at me. “What about the other one?”

I was wondering if she’d catch my omission. Of course she did. She’s Iris Eliot. The most brilliant woman in the world, pregnancy-brain notwithstanding.

“Hmm, number two is a bit more of a wildcard. They’ll be an artist or dancer, or maybe an astrophysicist.”

She sighs in bliss. “Thank you. I feel better now.”

Since her belly is taking up most of my vision, I give each of the twins a kiss.

Iris giggles. “You just kissed their feet and butt respectively.”

I look up at the love of my life. “If they’re anything like you, I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”