*Saoirse*
I stood before the grand mirror, my hands gently resting on the curve of my belly where our twins nestled. Six months in, and I was starting to show, which meant my clothes were starting to squeeze. The array of gowns and finery that Rhys had gifted me no longer welcomed me as they once did.
The fabrics strained against my form, seams whispering their discontent as if mourning the shapes they could no longer contain. I felt my lower lip wobble, an over-the-top reaction that seemed commonplace for me now thanks to hormones.
"Nothing fits," I whined, a frown creasing my brow. "These gowns were not made for a mother-to-be."
"Let me help you with that, my love," Rhys' voice called from the room, his presence an immediate comfort. He rolled his wheelchair across the chamber with a purpose, his eyes reflecting a mix of concern and resolve. A little smirk on his face gave away how amusing he thought my reaction was. I stuck my tongue out at him.
