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The sweater was a ridiculous thing.
Bright green, fuzzy, cropped too short and entirely impractical for warmth. Nile had found it in a vintage shop down the street, tossed over the shoulder of a mannequin who looked like she hadn’t been dusted in years. It was love at first sight. Booker had tried to say it was itchy, that it looked like it’d start pilling if you so much as breathed on it wrong.
Nile bought it anyway.
And now here she was. Standing barefoot in their kitchen, that neon fuzz skimming the base of her ribs, the shy curve of her belly on display as she munched on strawberries she’d washed and laid out on a paper towel. A few petals from the daisies she’d picked earlier were stuck to her forearm, one clinging to the curl at the end of her braid. Her whole presence screamed chaotic domestic goddess.
And Booker?
He stood frozen in the doorway like he'd just seen a miracle.
Grocery bags hung forgotten from his fingers, the leafy tops of carrots peeking out. He’d only gone to the market for half an hour, and somehow, the woman in front of him looked like she’d aged into another plane of ethereal motherhood in that time. Her bump was just barely there — a soft, proud swell beneath the sweater. He could see the curve of it clearly now. No mistaking it.
“Nile.”
She didn’t turn around at first, still humming along to something low playing on her phone, a lazy sway in her hips like she was dancing just for herself.
“Nile,” he said again, voice quieter, hoarser.
She turned.
The moment their eyes met, she knew.
“Oh, you’re about to cry,” she grinned, mouth already tipping up into something cocky and fond. “Baby. Again?”
Booker’s jaw clenched slightly as if he were trying to hold it together through sheer force of will. “I’m not—! I’m not crying.”
“Uh-huh.” She stepped toward him, fingers brushing his cheek. “Then explain this dramatic-ass expression you’ve got goin’ on.”
“You’re showing.”
“I was showing yesterday too, y’know.”
“Not like this.”
He let the bags fall to the floor without a second thought and dropped to one knee right in front of her, both hands hovering like he didn’t want to touch her unless she gave permission.
“Can I?”
Her heart clenched. “Of course.”
He placed both hands on her belly. Gently. Reverently. Like a man meeting God in the form of a curve and heartbeat he couldn’t hear yet but felt all the same. Nile’s hands slid into his hair, threading through the strands with a softness that surprised even her.
“I didn’t think we’d ever get this,” he said into her skin.
“What, the green sweater fantasy?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood, but his eyes were too full, too earnest, too Booker.
“This. You. Me. This baby.” He kissed the bump softly. “A morning where I come home from the market, and my wife’s standing in the kitchen glowing in a sweater that looks like it lost a fight with a muppet, eating strawberries and humming. I didn’t know I could have this.”
Nile blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “You make it sound like I’m out here floatin’ on air.”
“You are,” he said simply. “You always do.”
She couldn’t look at him then. Not really. So she sat on the floor with him instead. Right there in the kitchen, surrounded by paper towels and produce and a half-eaten strawberry, she tugged his hand back over her stomach and leaned into him.
Booker, ever the romantic, laced their fingers together and pressed a kiss to her knuckle.
“I think they’ll have your nose,” he murmured.
“You hope,” she countered. “My nose is cuter.” and then, just because she can, she adds, “I hope the kid gets your butt.”
He lifts his head slowly. “You’re saying that like it’s not the obvious superior option.”
“We’re manifesting, Book. Science can only do so much.”
“And your eyes.” Booker adds.
“Definitely my eyes.”
He chuckled. “Your stubbornness.”
“Duh. Otherwise how will they survive me?”
Another beat. Then softer:
“I hope they get your heart.”
Booker swallowed.
“And your quiet,” she added. “The kind that calms a room without needing to say anything. You make people feel safe, Book. You always have.”
He didn’t say anything to that, just buried his face against her shoulder, arms wrapped carefully around her belly.
For several long minutes, they sat like that. Her fingers idly traced circles over the back of his neck. He whispered something in French against her collarbone that she didn’t catch but knew wasn’t meant to be caught. It was a prayer, probably. A promise. Maybe both.
Later, he helped her up from the floor with a gentle tug and made her sit while he put away the groceries. She protested — weakly — but gave in once he started feeding her slices of apple like she was some spoiled Roman empress.
“Anything else you wanna do today?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, glancing down at her belly. “I wanna take a picture. For us.”
He smiled. “We’ve already got, like, a hundred.”
“This one’ll be different.”
She set up the camera on the windowsill, adjusting the little tripod with practiced ease while Booker stood nearby, already rolling up his sleeves like he knew the routine.
“Framing okay?” he asked, glancing at the angle.
“Perfect,” she said, reaching for him with that same soft command he always followed. “Now come here and do the hands.”
He stepped in close without hesitation, his touch automatic now — warm and familiar. Nile guided his hands over her belly, skin soft beneath his fingers. Then she layered her own over his, their rings catching the late sunlight like twin stars. Matched, loved, worn.
With her free hand, she reached up and tucked in the final detail: wildflowers they’d picked together the day before, half-wilted but still lovely — daisies peeking out from her braid and nestled along her fingers like tiny confetti.
Click.
She checked the photo on the screen.
It was perfect.
The bump.
The hands.
The green sweater like a neon halo.
The daisies blooming from her fingers like they’d grown there.
And their hands — steady, intertwined, both rings gleaming like quiet promises — were the final detail that made it theirs.
That night, they printed the photo. Not digitally. Real printing. Glossy and tangible.
Booker tucked it into his journal. Nile slipped a copy into her favorite poetry book.
When the baby asked years later if they remembered what it felt like to be that happy?
They’d say: Yes. We had proof.