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Chapter 13

"What about Lily?" he asks after several minutes of complete and utter silence, slowly running out of names.

"Mhmm," I hum, looking at the freshly painted ceiling, repeating the name in my mind, testing its sound. "Nah, it's too gentle," I shrug it off, crossing it off of my mental list.

"Too gentle?" he repeats, confusion, followed by curiosity, evident in the tone of his voice.

"I want her to have a strong name," I demand, my brows inching closer to each other on their own free will, leaving no space between them. "Like Selene, or Thalia, or Demetra."

Not like mine. Elena; sun, the bright one, shining light - pressured to act like little Mary fucking Sunshine all the time. There's a power in a name. I want to put a weapon in my daughters hands as soon as she pops out into the world.

"You're adamant it's a she. What if it's a he?" I try to look at him from over my belly, but no such luck. All I can see are the wisps of his sandy blonde hair, standing still, not bothered by the cool early autumn breeze I can feel on my skin.

"I'm optimistic it's a she." I can feel the tips of his fingers on the bottom part of my belly, slowly, gently, carefully caressing the shell in which the baby is resting peacefully. For now, at least, until it starts kicking, bothered by whatever babies in a womb get bothered by.

"If not," he adds, "If it's a boy, then I would like to name him William, after my grandfather. And before you ask," he raises, propping himself on his elbows, unexpectedly popping in front of me. I get a good look of his bright, warm, green eyes, and a knowing smirk dancing on his soft, pink lips. "I've checked out what the name means. Warrior, protector, strong willed," he says proudly, as if those exact three things are something he would like his son to be.

"William," I say the name out loud, my eyes still on him, taking in his strong jaws, gentle contours of his face, thousand year old look in his eyes. I go back in time, when we were just kids, when Stefan was just a boy who was always willing to share his lunch with me when my mom would pack me something I didn't really like, a boy who would defend me from other boys who tried to pull at my pigtails at the playground. I try to remember him then, how small he was, how tiny and weak, his hair the color of mouses fur, his eyes as gentle as now, revealing the depth of his heart. I can imagine our son with eyes like his and hair like his and heart like his. "Will," I smile warmly at him, covering the top of his hand, the one that's resting on my bulging belly, with my open palm, "I like it. I like it very much."

He smiles back at me, kissing the top of my belly, making my skin all warm and tingly. I expect the baby to kick, but it doesn't, which is weird, because lately it's been kicking to even the smallest and lightest stimuli. Doctors say it shouldn't be too long now, that I could go into labor any day now, which both scares and excites me. Relieves me as well, in a way.

"You did a really nice job with this place," I exhale, looking around myself, noticing the snowy white walls and shiny new flooring. I remember when he bought this house several months ago. Well, if you could have called it a house back then - it was in ruins. No doors, no windows, no roof, barely any walls on the foundation. So Stefan took it upon himself to redecorate this place, to make a home out of it before the baby is born. He bought it with his share of money his father had left to Damon and him. In the mornings he would go to work to the mechanic shop, and in the afternoons he would come here, even if he had so little strength to add just one brick. I stopped working at the shop, taking maternity leave, and the end of my second trimester. The money is still tight - we're just a couple of 19 year old's, after all, who have no idea what they're doing - so my parents and his brother pitch in when they can.