–Laura–
After my checkup with Dr. Greene, my husband—who was holding my purse like it was the most natural thing in the world—guided me toward the elevator. His hand rested firmly at the small of my back, protective and possessive at the same time.
Before we left the clinic, he insisted I wear a face mask.
So I did.
I held his hand while he double-checked that my sanitizer spray was clipped to my handbag like a lucky charm.
When the elevator doors opened, he immediately sprayed my hands. Only then did we walk toward the parking lot. He sanitized his own hands again, opened the passenger door, and waited.
I climbed into the seat while he walked around to the driver's side.
He slid into the car smoothly, started the engine, then turned to me with that familiar grin.
"Alright."
I rolled my eyes.
This man.
How did he manage to put another set of twins in my stomach?
"This is the last, Damien," I warned, glaring at him.
