Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 194

Xander’s POV

Thirty-four weeks.

The doctor's appointment this morning brought news we've been too afraid to hope for. Hope's measurements are holding steady.

Her heart rate—while still showing the abnormalities we've known about for months—is stable. Strong enough. The growth restriction hasn't worsened.

We're past the danger zone for extreme prematurity. Dr. Reeves used phrases like "cautiously optimistic" and "encouraging progress."

Said if Hope comes now, her survival odds are dramatically better than they were even two weeks ago.

Not guaranteed. He was very clear about that. But better. Significantly better.

For the first time in months, I let myself feel hope. Actual hope. Not the desperate variety that's really fear wearing a mask. Real hope that tastes like possibility instead of denial.

That night, Daphne emerges from the bathroom wearing one of my old t-shirts and pajama shorts that barely fit over her belly.

Her hair is damp from the shower. Her face is free of the tension that's been carved into her features since week twenty.

She looks young. Almost carefree. Like the woman I fell in love with before impossible choices became our daily reality.

"What?" She notices me staring.

"Nothing." I cross the room. Pull her close despite the belly between us. "You just look beautiful."

"I look like a whale." But she's smiling, actually smiling without the shadow of grief behind it.

"A very sexy whale." I kiss her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.

She laughs—real laughter, not the careful kind she's been rationing for months. The sound does something to my chest.

Reminds me of who we were before the crisis became our default state. Before every day was calculated in survival percentages and medical terminology.

"Thirty-four weeks," Daphne says quietly. "We made it to thirty-four weeks."

"We did." My hand finds her belly. Rests there where Hope moves sluggishly beneath my palm. "You did. You fought for this."

"We fought for this." She covers my hand with hers. "Together."

I sink to my knees in front of her. Press my face against her belly where our daughter lives. Feel the movement beneath my cheek—lazy rolls rather than strong kicks, but present. Real.

"Hey, Hope. It's Daddy." My voice comes out rough with emotion.

"Just wanted to tell you we're really proud of you for hanging in there. Your sisters can't wait to meet you. Nina's already picked out seventeen books she wants to read to you. Lisa has a spreadsheet tracking your development milestones."

Daphne's fingers thread through my hair. Gentle. Present.

"We've got your nursery ready," I continue. "Pale yellow walls. A mobile that plays lullabies. So many stuffed animals. And your mom—she's been so strong. So brave. Fighting for you every single day."

My lips press against Daphne's skin. Kissing her belly. Worshiping the place where our daughter grows despite odds that tried to crush us.

"I love you," I whisper against her. "Both of you. So much."

Daphne's hands tighten in my hair. When I look up, her eyes are wet but she's smiling. Actually smiling without grief tangled through it.

I rise slowly. Frame her face with my hands. Kiss her like I'm remembering how. Like we have time now. Like we're building toward something that doesn't end in loss.

She kisses me back. Her hands find my shirt, pull me closer. When we break apart, we're both breathing harder.

"Bed?" The question comes out rougher than intended.

"Yes."

I help her onto the mattress. She settles back against pillows arranged to support her belly. I lie beside her, propped on one elbow, just looking.

"You're staring again." But she's not complaining.

"Can't help it." My hand traces the curve of her belly. The place where her shirt has ridden up, exposing skin stretched taut over Hope's presence. "You're stunning. Absolutely stunning."

"I'm fat and swollen and can't see my own feet."

"You're carrying our daughter. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

I lean down. Press kisses to her belly. To her hip. To the curve where her body has changed to accommodate life.

My hands follow where my mouth leads—reverent, worshipful, rediscovering territory I know intimately but haven't touched with this kind of attention in months.

Daphne's breathing changes. Her fingers thread through my hair again, not guiding, just holding on.

I work her shorts down carefully. She lifts her hips to help, awkward with the belly but determined. When they're gone, I settle between her thighs, hands spreading them gently.

"Xander…" She starts to protest. To say she's too pregnant, too uncomfortable, that I don't have to—

"I want to." I look up at her. "Let me worship you. Please."

Her resistance melts. She nods.

I start slow. Kissing the inside of her thigh. Teasing movements that make her squirm.

Her hand tightens in my hair when my mouth finally finds where she's already wet, already wanting despite exhaustion and discomfort and all the reasons this should be the last thing on either of our minds.

I take my time. Learning again what makes her gasp, what makes her arch, what makes my name fall from her lips like a prayer. She tastes familiar and perfect and like coming home after being lost too long.

My tongue works precise patterns while my hands grip her thighs. Holding her steady while she trembles.

While her breathing goes ragged. While she moans my name in ways that make my own arousal almost painful.

"Xander. God. I'm—"

The orgasm takes her hard. Her thighs clench around my head. Her hand fists in my hair.

I keep going through it, drawing it out, making it last until she's pushing weakly at my shoulders because it's too much.

I pull back. Press kisses to her inner thigh while she catches her breath. Look up to find her watching me with eyes that are dark with satisfaction and something that looks like love so fierce it steals my breath.

"Come here." Her voice is wrecked.

I crawl up beside her. She reaches for my belt immediately, hands working the buckle with determination.

"You don't have to—" I start.

"I want to." She echoes my words back at me. Gets my pants open despite the awkward angle. Her hand wraps around me and I have to close my eyes against the sensation.

She strokes me slowly. Learning the rhythm that makes me groan. That makes my hips flex involuntarily. That has me gripping the sheets to keep from embarrassing myself immediately.

"Inside me." The words come out between strokes. "Please. I need to feel you."

We arrange ourselves carefully. Her on her side. Me behind her. The position that works with her belly, that doesn't put weight where it shouldn't go, that lets me hold her while we're connected.

When I push inside, we both go still. Just breathing. Just feeling. The intimacy of it overwhelming after weeks of being too focused on survival to remember this kind of connection.

"Okay?" My voice is strained.

"Perfect." She reaches back, her hand finding my hip. Pulling me deeper. "Move. Please move."

I start slowly, my hand comes around to find where we're joined, fingers working circles that make her cry out.

The angle is perfect, hitting places that make her clench around me. That have her gasping my name, that build pleasure on top of what she already felt.

"I love you." The words fall from my lips between thrusts. "I love you so much. Both of you."

"I love you too." She turns her head, captures my mouth in a kiss that's awkward with the angle but perfect anyway.

My rhythm increases. Still controlled but with more urgency. Chasing the release building at the base of my spine.

Her hand covers mine where it works between her legs, adding pressure, changing the angle slightly.

When she comes again, it's with my name on her lips and her body clenching around me and the kind of intimacy that goes beyond physical.

We collapse together. Both trembling. Both struggling to breathe. Both completely wrecked in the best possible way.

"Thirty-four weeks," Daphne whispers after several minutes of silence. "We made it."

"We did." I press my lips to her shoulder. "And we're going to make it the rest of the way."

For the first time in months, I actually believe it. Believe we might survive this. That Hope might come home. That our family might actually have the happy ending we've been fighting for.

Daphne falls asleep in my arms, her breathing evening out into the rhythm of exhaustion and satisfaction.

I hold her, feeling Hope move sluggishly between us, and let myself have this moment of peace.

We're not out of danger. Two more weeks minimum until they'll feel comfortable inducing if necessary. Four more weeks until full term. A million things could still go wrong.

But tonight, we made it to thirty-four weeks.