I woke up before her, like I had every morning lately.

Isabella was curled against my chest, one leg thrown over mine, her breathing soft and even. The early morning light painted her face in gentle gold. My hand rested protectively over the tiny swell of her stomach. Seven weeks. Our baby was already making its presence known with nausea and mood swings, and I couldn't stop watching her. She was so fucking beautiful it hurt sometimes.

She stirred, eyelids fluttering open. When she caught me staring, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips.

"Good morning, handsome creep," she mumbled, voice raspy.

I grinned and attacked - fingers digging into...