"I haven't done anything yet," I say.
"You're holding it wrong," she says. "Use your weight, not your arms."
She comes up behind me and reaches around, her hands over mine on the rolling pin, correcting my grip with the matter-of-fact precision of someone who has been doing this since she was old enough to reach a bench, and her chin is near my shoulder and her strawberry is everywhere and warm and I stop thinking about the pasta entirely.
"Like this," she says, guiding the stroke forward.
"I see," I say.
"You're not looking at the pasta," she says.
"No," I say.
She pauses.
Her hands are still over mine. The kitchen is very quiet.
"Santos," she says.
Her voice is different. Just enough.
I set the rolling pin carefully on the bench, cover the dough with the cloth so it can rest, and turn around. She is right there, green eyes dark in the kitchen light, the flour along her jaw where she pushed her hair back earlier, and she looks at methe way she looks at things she has decided she wants, which is directly and without pretending otherwise.
I brush the flour from her jaw with my thumb.
She goes very still.
Her scent shifts before she moves, strawberry blooming warm and wide, and I take her hand and lead her the few steps to the kitchen table, which is clear and solid and nowhere near the pasta, and I sit her on the edge of it and step between her knees and take her face in my hands and look at her in the kitchen light.
"Here?" she says.
"Here," I say.
She considers this for approximately one second. Then she reaches for my collar.
She reaches up and takes my face in her hands, flour and all, and that is the end of any discussion about anything. She kisses me and I pull her in close and she fits against me the way she has fit against me since Vegas, perfectly and entirely, and even now, six months along, warm and round and entirely herself, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever had my hands on.
Her shirt comes off first, arms lifting for it like she has already decided, which she has, and the kitchen light lands on her skin warm and golden and I look at her the way I look at things I find genuinely beautiful, which is for as long as I want to and without apologizing for it.
"You're doing it again," she says.
"You're nearly six months pregnant and you're sitting in my kitchen looking like that," I say. "I'm going to look."
"I feel heavy," she says.
"You feel perfect," I say, and I say it without decoration and I watch it land in her face and watch her decide to let it.
My mouth finds her neck, the bond marks warm under my lips, and she tips her head back and gives me room without myasking for it, which is the most Jennifer thing she has ever done, making a gift out of something while pretending she isn't. I work my way down slowly, my hands finding her waist, her hips, learning the changed shape of her with the same attention I have given to everything about her since day four, and her strawberry scent opens completely in the warm kitchen air.
I growl low against her skin and feel her shiver in response.
"Santos," she breathes.
"I know," I say.
I drop to my knees in front of the table.
"Oh," she says.