In all the horror, there's this moment. A moment that can turn even someone like me, who can hardly stand in a room with a child for more than five minutes without experiencing extreme panic, into a soft person who only now realized, wrapped in a man's embrace—something is actually growing inside of me, something that was created by only he and me. And I allow myself to dwell on it, knowing that as long as Giovanni's here, I'm not dwelling alone.

Still weak on my toes, facing the aftermath of a harsh fever, my fingers grasp onto him with vigor, needing his support to stay upright. He must sense my weakening, for he lifts me with ease into his arms, face still buried into the crook of my neck. Relieved to be off my feet, my legs bound around his waist, clinging to him like a mammal on a tree. Just seconds later, I feel a hard surface beneath my backside, which I realize is the kitchen counter.

He tears his cheek from mine, only to find my eyes. I've been waiting for his and am struck by the magnitude of what I just told him, just by looking into his face. I think that as we sat in silence, I expected him to come to his senses, to realize how poor timing all of this is, to realize that he's having his child with me, a glorified mess, and begin to feel a shrinking feeling of doubt. I expected him to pull away with a gaping mouth and furrowed brow, considering what this news means at this specific time in our lives.

But he doesn't do any of that. He's stunned; there's no doubt about that. He can't stop blinking, but the corners of his eyes are crinkled, making the dark abysses within seem alight. I observe him intensely as his hands move from my hair to my face. On the descent, his thumbs glide over the shape of my face. My legs are still wrapped around him, holding him to me even though I'm seated.

There's a shocking amount of vulnerability sunken into his features when his eyes leave my lips, shooting up to meet my gaze.

"How long have you known?"

"Since the day you had dinner with Norman. After I saw you."

He swallows, trying to think. "How far along—?"

"Almost seven weeks."

"So, that means it probably happened—"

"Right when we got back together, yes. I don't know how it happened—"

He shakes his head, smiling wide enough to blind me. "I don't care how it happened. I don't."

Part of me is screaming inside, trapped in who I have always been. The other part, the part I let show, and the part of me that is brand new, whose actions and emotions are foreign to me, thrive off of his excitement and wants to soak in it. I want him to change my mind. My arm stretches out and dives beneath his to touch his face. His eyes coax shut the moment he feels my fingers. His arms move to come around me, his hands digging behind my shoulders, urging me to him.

"Thank God," he whispers, chuckling suddenly to himself.

"What?"

We look at one another collectively.

"I thought you were going to tell me Dixon had hurt you. I thought that was why you weren't telling me."

I shake my head with quickness, my heart sinking at just that thought. "No, no. Nothing like that."

He exhales and leans in to kiss me. It's a gentle, soft kiss that lingers even after his lips settle against my cheek, his nose nuzzling my skin sweetly. We fall into silence for the second time, reflecting and settling into the news. I drop my face onto his shoulder, sniffling, exhausted—reeling.

His hand continues to travel up and down my back, comfortingly. My eyes become heavy, yearning for slumber, for rest I've missed out on for days now. However, when he speaks again, his voice deceptively calm, his question pours over me like a bucket of frigid ice.

"This was not the news you were hoping for, was it?"

My eyes open slowly as he continues.

"This was...why you had the panic attack."

It's not a question. Neither really is. They are statements, facts he's already puzzled together in his head. The longer I don't answer him, the more I'm sure I don't want to ruin anything for him with my worry. I don't want to disrupt this piece of happiness I know he's glad for. Lifting my cheek from his shoulder, I give him the only answer I can.

"I don't want to think about that now," my lips catch the corner of his jaw, "Just hold me, please."

He only nods in answer, surrounding me when I shiver.

...

I wake in darkness, head pressed against the mattress instead of the pillow. Disoriented, I reach out, fingers splaying out, finding only cold sheets. My eyes close again, a melancholy feeling rushing through me when I realize I'm at home and Giovanni is not here.

And yet, I feel the oversized t-shirt bunched around my waist beneath the quilt. It isn't until I hear soft music that relief sweeps through me. I'm still in the cabin. Giovanni is still nearby. I sit, pulling my knees up to my chin, rubbing my aching eyelids. Eying my phone on the nightstand when I search for the time, I reach and grab it, not surprised to see missed texts and calls. I write back to Norman, letting him know the fevers passed and that I'm alright. I answer Rebecca's long list of questions, letting her know I'll be in late tomorrow. My fingers go sore while I text back clients and secretaries, still getting used to the volume of concerns and complaints and deeds that are now required of me as CEO of NWPR.

I'm glad to leave the phone on the nightstand, heaving myself off the bed to brush my teeth and wash my face. I'm nearly to the door when my hand halts on the doorknob, the weight of the confession and day paralyzing me momentarily, forcing me to gear myself up to whatever I'm about to walk into. Surely, Giovanni has questions, worries that have set upon him when the initial shock wore off.

I open the door, and the soft jazz intensifies to a soft hum.

My feet stop working the moment they press upon softness, my eyes drinking in the sight of the cabin with surprise. Scalding tears pool and blur my vision at the sight of a room filled to the brink with red roses. Vases of every size and shape, overwhelmed by fully-bloomed, vibrant roses, rest on almost every surface. Candles are the only source of light, making the room glow in a comforting, sensual haze. Under my feet are rose petals, and they lead into the fragrant space, scattered delicately along the wooden ground.

My mouth hangs open as I step further into the room, looking everywhere at once.

"Giovanni?"

I search for him, coming up short. Suddenly, there are hands on my waist and my smile widens when Giovanni presses his lips to my shoulder.

"What is this for?" I ask, warmly, tilting my face into his mouth when he straightens.

"I just wanted to do something for you."

My eyes close. "You do so much for me already."

Stunned by the romantic gesture, and the day I've had, it's truly hard to keep my composure. My teeth sink into my lip, to keep the tumbling mess from showing itself. Like the dress he made for me when we'd only just met, the trip he made on Christmas to be with me—this is an effort he made simply to see me happy.

I turn in his arms, all worries set aside. My eyes lift to his as he urges my face to tilt. He's in different clothing, a forest green sweater and black slacks, although he is barefoot. The outfit is fashionably him, fit to perfection, colors ideal with his skin tone and features. His thumbs nick the corners of my eyes, stopping the tears before they have the chance to fall. I try to think of something to say that's better than thank you, knowing it's too trivial for what he's been like today.

A knight in shining armor. A real-life hero, who picked me up from my lowest place and nurtured me with gentle patience, utmost caution, overwhelming tenderness.

A thank you isn't enough.

Instead, I lift onto the tips of my toes to bestow kisses to him, telling him the only thing that blows thank you out of the water. And still, love isn't enough either. Love confessions fall flat compared to what I feel when I'm with him, what I feel when he takes me firmly between his hands as he is doing now.

Our foreheads press and as our mouths gape against one another to inhale air that isn't available to us anymore, both of our grips tighten, desperation taking over in madness. We sink to the floor, adoring each other with need. My hands fumble with his belt as he pulls the sweater over his head. Unnaturally graceful, he kicks off his remaining clothes, already reaching out. When he pulls me into his lap, I smile, running my hands over his hair while he tilts his head to graze the corner of my chin with his lips. Extending his legs out, I settle onto his thighs, wrapping my arms around his head as he guides me onto him with silent urgency.

We both suck in breaths when he's firmly within, despite the tension between us still making air hard to swallow. We're both panting, holding each other so tight it hurts. He ushers me to and fro with his palm flat against the base of my spine, doing the work my weak bones can't. I let him go just to remove the t-shirt I'm wearing and the second it's off, his mouth is against my collarbone. My cheek rests against his hair, a rough shiver seizing my body when his tongue slides between my breasts, rounding the peak until his mouth takes in my nipple.

I'm gasping, hard, finding much more pleasure than usual as he tugs on my nipple, nearly heightened to the point of orgasm. I beg him not to stop, fisting his hair tighter and realizing how close I am so early on in coitus, his other hand leaves my back to palm my neglected breast, his thumb rolling over the peaked areola. I'm sure he can hear my teeth gritting together as I drop my head to his shoulder, rocking myself onto him as he praises my feminine places, right down to my sex, to which his fingers only have to press up upon my clit, and I'm instantly sent into intense pleasure like a flick to a switch.

His warm tongue drifts up over my breast to my throat, where he bites down in coaxing nibbles until he's just below my ear. When his hand is in my hair, pushing the crazy mane away so to reach my cheek, I do the rest of the work, wanting his mouth. I'm trembling, even my lips, finding it hard to breathe when I kiss him.

His touch is more gentle, more coaxing—just more—as he lifts me to lay me down flat against the ground. He moves between my legs, knowing where he wants to go, what he intends to do. I let him do whatever he wants, moving at his own movements, knowing his mind is set intently on how to bring me back to that place of pleasure. My legs trap him to me, my stomach buzzing as he fills me to the brink, groaning against my mouth. The sound is a low rumble, a deep confession of his desire and it turns me inside out. My fingers can't stop touching him, needing to cover every surface. I'm pillowed against the petals, which coat my skin in sweet fragrance.

With one hand bracing himself beside my head, the other grasping my face, he works over me with vigor, finding both intense passion which brings him into me with deep, forceful drives and also, a touching gentleness, which sends his hips toward me in slow, penetrating grinds. Either way, I'm lost in him, accepting every bit of love and gratitude he has to give, because it's the fuel that drives my days. He's thanking me. For what I'm unsure, but I think it's for the baby. The news of this baby, which is something I know he has always craved. His love is showering and spell-binding, and keeps away anything and everything else.

Which is why we don't race toward the end of this. In fact, we prolong every second, even stopping when we get too close. His mouth, a shapely masterpiece, consumes mine, bruising my lips in the process while we settle down, letting our pumping hearts slow. And when we start back up, our lips curve into smiles against one another, knowing we both realize exactly what we're doing.

It's only when we're too exhausted to continue, to bone-weary to go on that we both begin to nod. His hand tightens behind my neck, holding my mouth to him. My hands slide down over his long, smooth back, and then back up until the hard muscles of his shoulders twist beneath my palms. We're both covered in sweat and flowers, trembling with a violence that only comes from the strongest type of praise, an assault to our bodies. I can't even feel my toes anymore; they've been curved into the ground for so long.

We whisper the other's name in soft, building declarations, trapped in our own intimate sensuality. The outside world is too tame for us. I don't allow it in. My hands travel into his hair, forcing his face to me.

"Giovanni."

Look at me.

He does, in all his vulnerability. I soak all of it up, knowing it's in these moments that I love him most. When his eyes can just barely stare into my own, knowing he's showing me too much.

I'm instantly reminded of our first time together, how erotic and calculatedly perfect it all was. He was a magician of pleasure, transporting me to otherworldly experiences. But I remember, his eyes didn't have this look. Wild abandon. I can't even pinpoint the first time I saw him like this.

He's unable to be his usual collected, larger than life self. In this moment, he has no identity. He's given it to me, in its entirety, leaving me with only his raw emotions. It's the reason we can connect so easily—we're not two people right now, but one.

And I'm sure of it, because I know that when I look into his eyes, finding all of the unmatchable devotion, he's seeing the same thing in my own.

We come apart, both completely devoid of breath, eyes locked at the brink, and immediately after, we crumble in the strong aftershocks, faces burrowing into each other's throats as we feel the full, striking effect of our love.