The kitchen was quiet, but not in a lonely way. The morning sun spilled gently through the curtains, painting soft golden lines across the tiled floor. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon and tea, and somewhere in the background, an old R&B playlist played from the Bluetooth speaker on low volume.

Ava stood by the counter, barefoot, one hand resting gently on her belly.

She was seven months pregnant.

The curve of her stomach peeked out beneath the soft cotton of Damien’s oversized T-shirt, and every now and then, she felt a flutter, a small nudge inside, like a reminder — hey, I’m here.

She smiled to herself as she...