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Every night, I fall asleep with my hand in his. That's right, my soon-to-be husband falls asleep, holding my hand like an absolute gentleman, and all the while, my hoochie-hormones rage.

I'm an absolute mess, and I hate myself for it.

I really shouldn't want him, but I do. So badly. So much.

If I think about it too long, it hurts. So, I try not to think about it.

I try not to feel guilty for it, too. But I do. How couldn't I?

I feel guilty for wanting to go to bed now, too, with 40 minutes before kissing time.

But I am exhausted!

I'm exhausted in a way I haven't been exhausted since I first realized I was pregnant. I feel heavy in my bones, like breathing is hard. I'm uncomfortable in my skin, and I'm bloody horny.

I groan internally a second time. Because guilt.

She's a bitch. A brutal, cruel bitch.

I sigh heavily as I look at Tate. “I don't think I'm going to make it.”

He gives me that smile that says I can do no wrong. I narrow my eyes because sometimes I think the man is blind. He'd have to be to think that I’m innocent.

Sometimes, it feels like all I do is wrong.

I sort of love that he sees the good in me, even if it's hard for me to find myself.

He's sweet like that. He's kind of perfect, actually.

Tate stands, holding his hand out for me. I set mine in his, because I swear, this couch is close to eating me whole. Getting out of it is a task for the fittest of souls—which I currently am not.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No problem.” He releases my hand, and I waddle my way to the bathroom.

Okay, okay, I'm not big enough to waddle yet, but it's coming. I fear it's coming, anyhow. So far, I've been lucky. I'm relatively small. My bump is easy enough to manage, but Mom tells me that won't last.

She tells me, bucket of sunshine that she is, that I am going to grow, and fast now that I'm in my third trimester. She tells me that first pregnancies like to hide—in the beginning.

Like I said, bucket of sunshine.

I'm not ready to feel bigger than I already feel, and sometimes, cue the guilt—sometimes, it makes me feel icky to want to be touched by Tate while I'm carrying Holt's baby. It makes me feel like a terrible person. Like I’m the worst kind of person…

I'm so tired of feeling guilty.

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and splash water on my face. I pee, and then I wait for more pee, because I almost always have to get out of bed to release the rest.

Whoever said pregnancy is blissful and beautiful, they're lying. Pregnancy is not blissful, and it's not beautiful. It's humiliating, it’s humbling, and it's uncomfortable.

By the time Tate joins me in bed, my mind is whirling, but my burning eyes are closed, and I can feel a troubled sleep tugging at me.

Tate shifts beside me, and I feel the heat of his body grazing my skin. I can’t sleep in the full fleece get-up. Sleep shorts and a tank top don’t make me feel like I’m trying to snooze in a straight jacket—which is what happens when I try to sleep in head-to-toe jammies topped with blankets.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to ignore the heat of his body where it grazes mine.

I feel statically charged. Like there’s a sudden current of electricity humming beneath my skin. One strike of lightning is all it’d take to set me ablaze.

It’s not new. I’ve been struggling with it every night for the last week.