First Crush, My Forever

Chapter 122

  I cannot stop looking at her.

  Dani is standing at the counter, folding tiny laundry that somehow already exists in our house. Her shirt curves over her belly now. Not exaggerated. Just undeniable. She moves slower, more aware, like she knows she is carrying something precious and refuses to rush it. Hard to believe she it's mid April and she is right at 25 weeks.

  She has always been beautiful. That part was never in question. But pregnancy has made her something else. Softer and stronger at the same time. Grounded. Magnetic. There is a glow to her that feels private, like I am seeing something meant only for me.

  I want to do right by her. Completely. That is why the gift matters.

  I kiss her temple, tell her I am heading to my moms' place for a bit, and she nods like she trusts me without needing details. That trust sits heavy and warm in my chest as I grab my backpack and step next door.

  At my moms' house, I spread everything out on the dining table. Blank paper. A pen I like. An empty wooden box I bought a couple weeks ago and never opened because I was scared it would make this real.

  Mom pours coffee as Mama puts on her glasses. "Okay," Mama says. "What are we doing?"

  "I'm making something for Dani," I say. "For the wedding day."

  Mom smiles softly. "We assumed."

  I sit down and stare at the paper. My mind is full but my hand will not move. "I don't want it to sound like vows," I say. "But it kind of is."

  Mama nods. "Then don't perform. Tell the truth."

  I try. I write one paragraph then cross half of it out. "It sounds rehearsed," I mutter.

  Mom leans over my shoulder. "Because you're trying to impress her." That lands.

  "I don't need to impress her," I say quietly.

  "No," Mama agrees. "You need to show her you see her."

  I start again. This time I write about the first night she fell asleep on my chest without asking permission. About the way she protects KK with her whole body. About how pregnancy has not softened her edges but clarified them.

  I stop halfway through and push the paper away. My throat feels tight. "I don't want this to feel like a love letter she could read once and put away," I say. "I want it to feel like something she can come back to."

  Mom nods. "Then it needs layers." They help me slow it down. Mama suggests breaking it into sections. Not chapters. Moments. One page about choosing her. One about staying. One about the future I see when I look at her now.

  Mom suggests handwriting everything. "She knows your handwriting," she says. "It will make it more intimate."

  That feels right immediately. I rewrite the first page completely. The words come steadier now. Less pretty and more honest. I write about watching her carry our son. About how seeing her body do this has made me love her with awe instead of fear. About how I do not feel like I am stepping into something unknown anymore. I feel like I am stepping into something earned. When I finish the last page, my hand is shaking.

  Mama reads it slowly, she does not rush. When she is done, she looks at me with wet eyes. "She needs something concrete too," Mama says gently. "Something that says this is not just emotion."

  I open the wooden box. Inside is empty, just fabric lining, pale and clean. I hesitate. "I don't know what else to put in it."

  Mom disappears down the hall and comes back with an old photo album. She flips until she finds it and slides out a picture. It is the last picture of me in my favorite hoodie I constantly wore during my senior year of high school. Worn. Familiar. "You kept that because it reminds you where you came from," Mom says. "Give her a piece of that."

  I go to my old bedroom and grab my high school keepsake box from the closet. I pull my old hoodie out and smile because this was my favorite hoodie, it's also the same hoodie I wore the first time I babysat KK for Dani. I walk back to the table with it and grab a pair of scissors. I cut a small piece of fabric carefully. My chest aches as I fold it. Not because I cut my old favorite hoodie but because of the meaning behind this. I add the fabric to the box then I add the ultrasound photo. The one where our son looks unmistakably real. The one where Dani cried and laughed at the same time.

  Mama watches as I arrange everything inside the box. "She will understand this," she says. "Even if she never says it out loud."

  There is still one thing missing. "I want to give her something she can read on hard days," I say. "When she doubts herself."

  Mom slides a small card toward me. "Then write that."

  So I do. I write plainly. No poetry. No romance. I write that she is a good mother. That she does not fail because she rests. That she does not need to prove she deserves love. That I am not going anywhere. When I place the card in the box, something settles.

  Mama closes the lid for me. "That's it. You can still add to it if you want to."

  I exhale like I have been holding my breath for weeks. When I leave, the box is tucked carefully into my bag. Not rushed. Not casual.

  At home, Dani is on the couch with KK, reading. Her voice is calm. The baby shifts under her shirt and she smiles without stopping.

  I sit beside her and rest my hand on her belly. He kicks once, solid and sure.

  Dani looks at me. "You okay?"

  "I am," I say honestly. I look at her longer than necessary. She leans into me like she belongs there.

  The gift is not finished yet, I will definitely add to it up until the wedding day.

  That thought stays with me as I stand there, Dani warm against my side, KK's small voice drifting through the room as she turns pages. I am not in a rush to complete it because neither is our life. This is not something I want to rush through just to say it is done. I want every piece I add to mean something. I want it to grow the same way we have. Slowly. Intentionally.

  Mama was right. I can add to it. Moments will come. Words I have not found yet will show up when I am not forcing them. Maybe after another appointment. Maybe after the baby kicks hard enough to surprise both of us again. Maybe on a night when Dani is tired and brave at the same time and does not even realize how strong she looks.

  I press my palm a little more firmly to her belly. He answers with another kick, like he knows I am thinking about him. Like he already understands that he is part of this gift too.

  Dani's hand finds mine without looking. Her fingers lace through mine automatically. Familiar. Easy.

  Whatever I add next will come from this place. From the quiet certainty. From the way she leans into me like I am home and the way I already know I will spend the rest of my life proving that she is safe to do so.