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She looks at the television first.

Then at me.

She chooses not to say anything.

Instead, she crosses the room and slides into my lap, and I wrap my arms around her.

“That’s better,” she says, settling in.

I press my mouth to hers and slide one hand over her stomach, unable to help myself.

“How is he?” I ask when I pull back.

“Asleep,” she says. “Unwillingly.”

“You tired him out?” I say, amused.

“It's the only way he'll get some rest.”

I grin. “He's going to figure out what you're doing sooner rather than later.”

“He already has,” she says. “I told him to be grateful I’m choosing conversation over a pillow.”

I tip my head back and laugh.

She grins at me, then it softens into a smile.

“I'd be very happy if this baby had your smile,” she says.

My heart goes embarrassingly soft at her words.

“Dio, cuore mio,” I murmur, my voice roughening. “Che cosa mi fai.”

God, my heart. What you do to me.

Her eyes soften, but her mouth curves. “Non lo dirò a nessuno.”

I won’t tell anyone.

I grin. “That’s a relief.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” she whispers.

THE END