May 22, 2025 — 7:15 AMRockwell, Their Apartment — Bedroom
The light broke through the curtains in gentle, golden slivers, washing the room in that warm kind of quiet only early mornings could bring.
Angel lay propped up by three pillows, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the other scrolling absently through her calendar.
Thirty-four weeks.
Time had shifted into a strange rhythm. Faster when she was busy, slower when she lay still like this. Every kick was a reminder—soft, sometimes sharp—that things were changing, that they were almost there.
Matthew stirred beside her, eyes squinting open. His hair was a mess. His shirt was wrinkled. But the first thing he did was reach over and brush his fingers gently over the top curve of her belly.
"Good morning, Captain," he murmured.
Angel raised an eyebrow. "I'm demoting you if you call me that again."
"Fine," he whispered, smiling. "Madam General."