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You're huge. There's no delicate way around it, though Yoba knows Elliott has tried. He still called you his muse, his heart, his June, but the compliments are now interspersed with his attempts at romanticizing pregnancy.
“My fertility goddess,” he uttered as you waddled in with a small harvest of vegetables for tonight’s dinner, baby kicking Morse code into the nerves of your lower back.
“Try again, love,” you’d smiled through the discomfort, as he prepared the vegetables for dinner.
Later that evening he'd helped lower you into the tub, with a “careful, my primigravida,” rolling off his tongue like he used it daily and hadn’t just pulled it out of thin air.
You blinked confused, before the laughter hit. It started small, contained. But soon grew, turning wild and uncontrollable. Later, you'd blame it on the pregnancy hormones.
The only thing that silenced you that night was the way he’d worked the stubborn knot in your lower back. The one that just kept getting worse as the baby grew.
“You’re so good to me,” you sighed happily, sinking further back into his arms.
“And you are a marvel, my heart. My radiant vessel, my…” he trailed off coyly, lifting a hand from the water to let small droplets fall onto your stomach. “My buoyant submersible.”
You blinked, trying to wrap your head around his latest attempt at love, but it just caused the laughter to come roaring right back.
“Elliott,” you began, a playful edge to your tone.
“It’s just that…”
“No. Don’t say it.”
“Technically, you are keeping a human alive while fully submerged under water. AACK—” He sputtered as a splash of bath water hit him square in the face.
“You did not just call your poor, tired wife a submarine.”
Elliott scoffed, light-heartedly indignant. “I believe I used the much more romantic, submersible.”
There’s a pause, the two of you staring confounded at each other before the laughter kicks off yet again.
“You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered, no bite behind the words.
"I know," he whispered back.
Your conspiratorial giggles eventually quelled, mixing with the occasional drip from the faucet and soft birdcall outside. The warmth of his body – safety wrapped in the love of a person – had you marvelling once again at the simple joy of finding him.
Eventually, the silence is broken.
“Thank you, my bard.”
“For what, love?”
“Making me laugh, and for being the one I always want to talk to.”
“Ahh,” he replied softly, long, delicate hands splaying low across your belly. “I must admit, before we met, I wondered if I’d ever find someone so eager to hear me speak. I know at times that I can be a bit… much.”
You turn, meeting his gaze with a shake of your head. “I think you were just waiting for the right person to come along.”
Another happy hum.
“I’m grateful every day that it was you.”
“The sentiment is more than mutual, Elliott,” you whisper in agreement, wrapped in the softness of knowing you were home.