what now? | outerbanks

• sixty-three •

John B.

I'm awake first, waking to the slow, golden morning light casting soft shadows over tangled sheets, but I don't move. I don't want to. I can't possibly move when she's wrapped around me like this—one leg thrown over mine, her arm draped across my stomach, her face tucked into the crook of my neck. Her breath is warm and steady, her body molded perfectly to mine, like she belongs here. She does.
I take in her beauty, trailing my fingertips lightly over her tan skin, following the notches of her spine. She sighs a little under my touch, shifting slightly, but she doesn't wake just yet.
I smile to myself, looking at how my shirt bunches over her belly. I tilt my head down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in her shampoo. It's sweet and coconutty—perfectly Sarah. This is everything I need. No running, no danger, no worry. Just our tangled bodies and the soft chirping of birds against soothing waves.
After a few minutes, Sarah eventually stirs awake, nuzzling her face into my chest before furrowing her eyebrows and adjusting to the morning light. She looks up at me, finally, with half-lidded, golden brown eyes. The light from the window catches them just perfectly, making them shine like gold.
She lets out a soft groan, rubbing her stomach. "What time is it?"
"A little past nine," I say, glancing at the clock across the room.
"Too early," she complains, wrapping her arms around me. Her fingers don't quite reach behind my back, though, her belly already being quite the obstacle, but it's the thought that counts.
I smile down at her and her naturally rosy cheeks, soothing a hand up and down her back. "Too early for what? We've got nowhere to be."
    She's still sleepy, still soft around the edges, and she's so pretty like this. I tuck a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, brushing my thumb over her cheek.
    Sarah leans into my touch, her lips curling into a slow smile. "This is nice," she murmurs.
    "Yeah," I agree, my voice softer now.
    She studies me for a long moment before shifting, rolling fully onto her side. The sheets slip lower, exposing the curve of her belly, the way my shirt is bunched high on her hips. My gaze flickers down instinctively, my hand following, palm smoothing over the warm skin of her stomach.
    She watches me, her expression unreadable. "You still like me pregnant?" she teases.
    I smirk, rubbing slow circles against her skin. "Baby, you could be pregnant with triplets, and I'd still think you're the hottest girl I've ever seen."
    Sarah giggles, rolling her eyes and blushing. "Flatterer."
    I grin, leaning in to kiss her, slow and lazy and lingering. She hums into it, her fingers curling into my hair, pulling me impossibly closer.
    "You know what this reminds me of," she breathed between kisses. I pause, listening, nodding for her to continue. "Our honeymoon."
    "Mhm," I hum. "That was perfect." The baby shifts under our hands, and we look up at each other. Her movement is a reminder of what was, of what happened there on that trip.
    "Maybe a little too perfect," she snickers.
    We fall back into each other, melting and tangling in all the right ways. It's pure magic, just the way it should be. It's different now than it was last night—softer, unhurried, careful. I explore in the hazy morning light, relearning all of the places that make her sigh and shiver.
    And then, when we finally pull apart, she exhales, content. She sits up against the headboard, rubbing her back with a wince.
    I smirk. "Sore?"
    She glares at me, but there's no heat behind it. "Shut up." She knows it's worth it. "What I really am is hungry."
    "I think I can manage breakfast again," I chuckle.
    "Good," she snorts, pressing at a low spot in her belly. "She might riot and come early if I don't eat something soon."
    So, I make her breakfast. I stand falsely confident at the stove as Sarah sits crisscross on the counter, popping fruit in her mouth. I look back at her with wide eyes.
    "If you keep eating fruit at this rate, you won't even be hungry for what I'm making you."
    "Oh, trust me, I will be."
    The rest of the morning stays slow. We eat at the tiny dining table by the window, talking about nothing and everything in between sips of coffee. Sarah's is decaf, much to her dismay, but it's still perfect.
After breakfast, we head out for a massage. Sarah groans dramatically when the masseuse starts working out the knots in her back, muttering something about how she knew she was carrying all her stress in her shoulders. I just grin from the table beside her, watching her melt under the attention.
On our walk back to our house, Sarah insists we stop downtown to check out the shops. What I don't know is that she's already done her research, and she leads us straight to a baby boutique. At first, I think it might be sort of painful, but honestly, it's kind of fun.
Sarah is totally in her element, cooing over tiny outfits and shoes, picking out tiny stuffed animals as I act as her personal shopping cart. My arms get sore at one point, but I don't care—it's for them. She picks out a few more things she swears we can't leave without, and I bring them up to the counter to pay.
On our way out of the store, she stops slightly, taking a deep breath.
"You good?" I ask.
"Perfect. Just hungry again."
I wrap her hand in mine, swinging our arms like kids, and keep us walking out of the store. "Why don't we pick up lunch and have a beach picnic? Get some vitamin D?"
    She agrees, and we decide to stop at the house first to get changed. Sarah heads straight for her suitcase when we make it inside, and I watch amused as she tosses a swimsuit behind her. Then another. Then another.
    "I don't know if any of these are gonna fit," she groans, holding a bikini up to her body. "I should have just bought a new one at the shop."
    "You'll look good in anything," I tell her honestly. Then, I cough, trying to hide my words. "Or nothing," I mutter.
    "Shut up," she reprimands, swatting at me, but the smile she's suppressing is unmistakable. I chuckle, reaching for a bikini she keeps looking back to.
    "Come on. Let's just see."
    She rolls her eyes but rips the swimsuit out of my hands and walks into the bathroom. I hear a small commotion—she must have tripped—then a few small grunts, and then silence.
    A voice calls through the door. "John B.?"
    I walk over to it, my hand already on the doorknob. "Yeah, baby?"
    "I need some help," she admits, more hesitantly than before. This is big for Sarah—she's always hated asking for help. She wants to be able to do things on her own all of the time, but that's just not how things work.
    I open the door without waiting, ready to help. She already has the bottoms on, but the top is pressed messily against her chest, and the strings are knotted behind her back in a way they definitely are not meant to be.
    "I can't get it to tie," she murmurs, both frustrated and self-conscious. "And I think my boobs—"
"Stop," I say, taking the strings carefully from her hand and tying them behind her back, my fingers grazing over the nape of her neck. "It fits, and you look beautiful."
She lets out a sigh, leaning against the counter before pushing off of it and turning around to wrap me in a hug. I wrap my arms around her tight, swaying back and forth with her in my hold. She gasps, and I feel a nudge against my abdomen.
"What was that?" I ask, startled and confused. Sarah's just standing there, rubbing hard at a spot on her belly, her face scrunched.
"She just kicked—really hard."
"Then I guess we should head to the beach; get some lunch in you before she makes an early appearance."
"Fine," she huffs, adjusting her bikini top so it's better covering her chest. "But if this top betrays me, I'm blaming it on you."
"Deal."