Six Months Later,
Morning sunlight spilled into Axel's room through the curtains, casting soft streaks across the walls.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on his protruding stomach, gently rubbing it in slow, absent motions.
Eight months. But every time he looked at it, every time he felt the weight of it, he swore it felt like fifteen.
He was tired. Not tired of the baby, never that. Just… tired of being pregnant. Tired of waiting. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to finally see the child he had carried for so long.
Over the months, he had grown so attached to it, so protective, that the thought of finally holding it filled him with a restless kind of anticipation.
But that anticipation always came with something else.
Because every time he imagined the moment, the birth, the first cry, the first touch, he imagined Ivan being there.
And that thought alone was enough to drive him crazy.
