Warning: Copious amounts of fluff.

The faint, soothing hymn of your ancient instrument tinctures the room like a warm and comforting blanket. No sounds other than the spruce violin are prominent in the room, and, even if they were, they would drown in the tune of your song. It was the one that John had made for you, saying it signified your relationship. While the notes themselves were simple and easy to play, if played together with a piano, sounded more difficult than it actually was. However, this was no cacophony, but rather a symphony of thoughts that your husband couldn't say out loud, and put them into a song to express his feelings. John always was a brilliant piano player, much better than you'd allow him to think. You thought that praising him too much would cause him to slack, and you'd hate to see such a talented person give way to the weight of expectation. He deserved better, and you would be sure to always tell him to do his best.

You don't hate his skills. You aren't jealous of him. What you are, though, is impressed. Always impressed. To be honest, you haven't picked up your old violin in years; the last time you remember playing it was before you played SBURB, when you had suddenly decided to goof off for just a moment. Who would've known that was probably the last time you would ever act silly? John is still playing his black piano, the one you stand next to this very moment. He hasn't played it since he wrote you that song, and the two of you have been trying to plan a duet together; however, you have just been too busy. And he understands. He knows exactly why.

You wouldn't be able to tell that his piano is old. The paint and keys almost look as if they are untouched by delicate hands, more of a monument than an instrument. However, your violin has succumbed to many of time's weapons, and has since been falling apart. When you took it out of its case, you did your best to clean it up, wipe the dust off it, and make it look brand new; you can still see the wears of time.

The first wrong note. You weren't paying attention. It clashes with the rest of the harmonious tone, and it snaps you out of your distracting daydream. While you normally would have continued to play the song on any other occasion, today, you weren't in the mood. Instead, you set your violin in its case, slowly, as if it were a child, and rub a light cloth over the bridge to wipe your fingerprints. After making sure it was clean, and using your rosin to coat your bow lightly, you snap the case shut and push it away. That's enough violin for one night, you conclude. Maybe it would be best if you were to just play classical music on your iPod. While you were a bit skeptical about the prominent use of such tactics, John eventually convinced you to at least give it a try. You were more leaning towards the idea of reading instead, but he refused to buy any books until you gave his idea a try. In fact, he just left awhile ago to go get some.

You could just say you played the music, but you're not a liar. Besides, you actually like Mozart, and this gives you an excuse to listen to his symphonies without the rejections from John. He never outwardly rejected Mozart, but usually gave a groan or mumble whenever you decided you wanted to play it. John was more interested in jazz bits and fast tempos. That's why you found it endearing when he wrote that song for you, which doesn't have an ounce of jazz in it.

Your eyes gaze down at your hands, scrawny and pale, and the only beautiful thing about them, in your eyes, is the silver banded diamond ring around your finger. John was a successful businessman, and could have bought you any kind of ring you wanted. But he knew exactly what you wanted without even having to ask: not too big, not too shiny. You didn't care about the ring, all too much. It wasn't nearly as important as the actual event, after all. To be honest, you never even understood why you had to wear it everyday. It was a bit tiring and stressful, having to make sure you remembered to put it back on everyday. That does not conclude that you don't like it, of course. You love it.

Laying down on the burgundy sofa, you arch your back and stretch a bit, a large yawn coming from your agape jaws. Pulling the blanket over your body, a slight hump in the covers, you grab your iPod from the end table behind you. After putting it on repeat, you place it on its dock, lean your head back, and close your eyes.

You can't remember what time you dozed off, but your iPod eventually turned itself off, and, when you wake up, you are surrounded by darkness and utter silence. Goosebumps cover your skin, despite a second blanket having covered you in your sleep. Of course, there's only one suspect in this crime, and you know who the culprit is. However, it seems as though he's not here. He must have just turned the lights off, stopped the music, and let you sleep. You're not sure if it's good for the both of you to be taking an afternoon nap, but you decide that it probably won't do any harm.

You realize your throat is severely dry, and decide to make your way to the kitchen. Carefully maneuvering the living room, you find the light switch on the wall across from the couch. The living room is illuminated, and your violet eyes can finally see the whole of it. A crimson love seat sits in the back, next to a similarly colored recliner chair, across from a rather large TV. Next to the two seats lay a dark hardwood end table with your iPod dock station, as well as a small candle. The walls are an ivory white, with dark carpet and an abstract rug underneath the glass coffee table. It had a dark tone to it, but that's what John gets when he lets you design the living room.

You shut the kitchen door behind you quietly, just in case John is somewhere else in the house, asleep. You'd hate to wake him up at this time at... 2:32 p.m.? Okay, maybe too early to take a nap. You may have fallen asleep some two hours ago, but you've got a good excuse. He doesn't even have work on Saturdays.

Grabbing a glass from the cupboard and placing it on the slit in the fridge, you let your forehead fall onto the cold steel of the fridge and shiver. The light rays from the sun barely make it through the window blinds, and you decide to free them from their entrapment. It's a bit bright, but you welcome the warmth on your cold skin. You check the thermometer on the far side of the kitchen, squinting your eyelids heavy with sleep to read the tiny wording. Seventy degrees. Not cold at all. The fan wasn't on either. Then why were you freezing?

Sipping from the ornate cup slowly, you eye your coffee maker with interest. A cup sits on the counter, as if someone had left it out and forgotten to drink it. Or left it for you. John has done the former on more than once occasion, but you give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Intrigued, you tap the middle of the cup to check its temperature, finding the light liquid inside is warm. Recently made. The intangible aroma that emitted from it reminded you of herbs. Green tea? The cup is brimming with whatever it is, and its smell beckons you, so you decide to take a sip. You instantly burn your tongue, scalding the sensitive tissue, and decide to take another, slower sip. Mmm. It is green tea, your favorite. Something tells you that the culprit of this lonely cup is a black-haired goofball who is nowhere to be seen.

You take the cup of tea out with you, as well as your water, and place them both on coasters to protect the wood. However, as you sit on the sofa, you realize your pillow has suddenly become hard. You realize a book was left for you on the sofa, and was probably right next to you the entire time. Complacency of the Learned. Go figure; it's not like you've read your own book a hundred times over. On the floor nearby is an unfamiliar cover, a children's book, you assume based on the cartoon front and its small size. A price stamp is still on the front. John's doing, most likely.

You sit down on the love seat for a second time, careful not to sit on the book this time. The children's book is placed on the end table, while your own book is already opened up to the first page. You don't know why you're rereading it for probably the hundredth time, but since John put it here for you, might as well. You begin to read it aloud, the words flowing effortlessly off your tongue. These words have been repeated many times to the point where you could recite this book in your sleep. John only liked to read it aloud for the sake of reading your characters' names in a humorous way. His favorite, he tells you, is Frigglish. He's read the book, but usually had to come to you for help in understanding certain themes. Most people have a rough time reading and understanding your book, but those that do always seem to give it a good review. The only harsh grade you saw on it was on a rather shady website. John would always try to lift your spirits up and say they can't see good literature if it were right in front of their faces. But, to be honest, the review didn't faze you at all. However, it was not insightful at all, and most of its points were hardly backed up by any evidence, mainly opinions.

To be honest, you aren't hurt by many things. But John continues to back you up, as if they mattered. And it's because he does what he does that makes them do matter.

You read quickly and thoroughly, making sure to speak with emotion as you flip through each page of your book. You're not actually sure if this helps, but who knows? As John says, it's great to try everything you can. After all, you want to make sure it gets your smarts.

You hear a small rumble behind you out of the blue, a warm breath sliding up your neck, and a nose nuzzling into the crook of it.

"John," you sigh, flipping another page after being interrupted from your reading.

"Mmm?" He only mumbles, unable to form coherent words from face-planting himself into your body.

"You're going to suffocate with the amount of pressure you're exerting on my neck," you give a soft grin, and he only giggles like a school-boy.

"Oh, how naive you are, Ms. Lalonde, for I am the Heir of Breath, Rose, Breath." He smiles and gives a soft bite on your sensitive pink flesh. You squirm a bit.

"It's actually 'Mrs.' Lalonde now. And how do the events of ten years ago have anything to do with now?"

"Because, Rose, it is impossible to suffocate a Hero of Breath!" He wraps arms around your body, like a warm blanket, and you move a bit to get more comfortable in his grasp.

"And whoever said that, may I inquire?"

"No, you may not inquire." He gives a toothy grin, almost causing you to giggle yourself. Instead, you hold yourself back, and only give a small smile.

"Aww, that's a shame." You pout, a small bottom lip with light gloss curving over your top.

"What a shame it is." He agrees, finally pulling back from the depths of your neck, only to rebury himself in your lips. You give in to the kiss, closing your book slowly and leaning back to offer him more of your lips. He greedily accepts, cupping your cheek with one hand and wrapping around your stomach with the other. You instinctively reach for his hand rubbing your stomach, your light and delicate fingers resting on his hand. You're starting to lose yourself a bit, but you don't care right now. There's not a thing on your mind as you lean into his kiss more and more, moaning as he bites your lip. His hand rubs around your stomach in soothing circles, enticing a few kicks here and there to which he jumps and laughs before resuming the kiss. You wince in pain a bit, but his kisses soon block out the kicks.

You're interrupted by the sound of yells coming outside your house. John pulls wants to ignore them, but you eventually convince him to pull away, your thumb rubbing his cheek soothingly. He still looks irritated.

"Damn paparazzi always gotta stalk around our house... why can't we just live in a smaller house, like one of those single story ones in the city? Then they wouldn't be able to find us so easy-,"

"John, language." You scold.

"Sorry, but I mean, really?" He groans and rubs his face in the palms of his hands as he gets up to walk over to the front windows.

"We already live miles out from the city. The fact that they can find our house just means we must have told someone our address."

"What, you mean like a magazine company or something?" He peers out the window.

You don't get to answer him as a storm of people rush up to the window he was looking out. He flinches in shock as you both can hear the questions being asked by many people holding microphones, surrounded by cameras and other on-lookers.

"Mr. Egbert! Mr. Egbert, where is Mrs. Lalonde?"

"Mrs. Lalonde! What due date-"

"How do you feel about-"

"What names-"

John groans and shuts the window curtains, storming back to the living room.

"Something tells me they won't be leaving any time soon?" You rub his arm, trying to cheer him up in some way.

"Nope." He sighs and leans back into you, the two of you trying to ignore the sounds coming from outside. "Bluh, I just wish they'd leave us alone, for even one day. Why'd you have to be so famous?" He smiles to let you know it was a joke.

"What can I say? People just can't resist the Lalonde Charm."

"Good thing you didn't change your last name then, otherwise it'd have to be Egbert Charm." He grins, poking your cheek with his nose. "And I'm already the Egbert Pranking Master."

"Why, of course. No one could ever come close to your unchallenged skill at pranking." You respond, returning his butterfly kiss with a peck on his cheek.

He doesn't reply with words, but a second kiss on your lips, one that says, "Now, where were we?" His fingers travel through your blonde hair like a breeze, while his other hand goes back to working your stomach in soft, smooth rubs. You feel your heart thumping out of your chest as his kisses become a mix of passionate and heated, realizing that he wouldn't be able to take this too far. Most of his kisses find their way either on the inside of your mouth or along the edges of your lips. You desperately want him right now, but the pain coming from your stomach refuses to allow you to lose yourself. Between a mix of biting your lip and his lips, you reach up to his face with one hand, feeling the soft curve of where his jawline meets his neck. You rub there with your thumb and the rest of your hand in small circles, barely reaching his cheek. His moans in your ear cause you to go wild, but you eventually break the kiss by leaning into his shoulder and closing your eyes, a happy smile from ear to ear.

He realizes this and leans back to allow you to rest, wrapping his arms around you in a hug, and relaxing against the board of the sofa.

"Dh yui whfant to ghet fout fo fhere?"

"Hm?" He says, pulling you away from his chest. "I can't hear you when you're buried into my neck."

"Do you want to get out of here?" You repeat, looking up into his blue gaze, and glancing towards the back door. He seems a bit confused at first, but after following your gaze, grins.

The two of you find yourselves running across the streets (well, John's running, and you're lagging behind, too afraid to exert too much physical activity on yourself. Besides, John keeps telling you to relax and not work too much). The streets of New York are starting to come to life at this time, nearing five o'clock. While you don't care for the city too much, John loves to walk around the neighborhoods and visit the little cafes on the sidewalk. So, the two of you took a small detour and stopped at one of them, trying to avoid the gaze of many customers who might recognize you. The cash register, in fact, was a big fan of your book, but winked at you, agreeing to keep quiet and let the two of you enjoy your meal.

While you normally would have gotten an iced coffee, you decided to get water based on the fact that you're expecting. John agrees, ordering you the healthiest sub on the menu, and getting himself a roast turkey sub. The two of you sit at a small round table, getting a few looks of amazement in the fact that they're seeing a fairly well-known celebrity, but deciding just to take a few pictures and return to their meals. You are thankful that they have decided to give the two of you a break, and you dig into your sandwich slowly, while John wolfs it down. You laugh and smile and talk away the night, occasionally giving him a few kisses, resulting in food crumbs on your mouths. But the two of you just laugh it off and continue to talk, despite the food plates being totally empty of nutritional value.

"So, you heard that Dave and Jade's kid now has his own pair of shades?" John laughs, taking another sip of his soda and trying his hardest not to spurt it out his nose.

"Oh, really? I knew Luke looked a lot like his father, but did they really have to make him look that cool?" You smile, taking a sip of John's soda.

"Apparently! How old is he now? I think he's only one or something."

"He'll be turning one in six months, John."

"Oh wow! A lot younger than I thought. How do the glasses even fit on his tiny little face? Plus, I dunno why he needs shades since he's got Jade's eyes."

"You have blue eyes, so why would you need glasses?" You retort, grinning slyly.

"Oh psh! These aren't sunglasses, and I need 'em to see." John throws your argument out the window with laughter, and the two of you decide to order some drinks. You order a green tea, since you had totally forgotten about the cup you left at home, and John asks for plain water. There's a small moment of silence.

"So, Rose..." John asks bashfully, his face turning red at the thought of the unknown subject.

"Hm?" You say after swallowing down your tea.

"Uhm, so, have you given any thought to names? Like, boy and girl names?" He grinned shyly. "I think you already know what I'm goin' for, but I dunno what you want."

"Names..." The thought goes through your head. To be honest, you hadn't even thought about the gender of it. You two had agreed to keep it a surprise.

"We don't have to decide now, of course! The due date isn't until, like, four months away, but y'know, just as a conversation topic!" He smiles, leaning forward to hear you better.

"I honestly don't know. I liked Roxanne for a girl when I was younger, but I'm beginning to prefer something else."

"And what preference would that be?" John asks.

"Well, I've also liked Fiona, Victoria, and... Casey."

A look of shock spreads across his face. "Nuh uh! You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Oh, am I?" You grin, cupping your chin in your hand.

"Yup! I can just tell!" He laughs and leans forward to plant a kiss on your cheek, "But thanks anyway."

"Of course." You smile and return the kiss, then return to your tea.

"But... y'know, I think it would be better if we wait."

"Huh?" What did he mean by that?

"Well, since we're keeping the gender a surprise, I think we should keep the name a surprise! Like, not think of a good name until we actually see him or her, and that way we know exactly what to name him or her."

"I believe it's supposed to be a baby grows into their name, not the name grows onto the baby." You smirk, but John only rolls his eyes. "But I suppose we could do that, yes."

"Casey can just be our backup name!"

"John, we don't have a boy's name for a backup."

"Oh yeah."

"What do you think about Harry?"

"Rose, you only want to name him that because it's after Harry Potter." He rolls his eyes and laughs.

"So what if I am? Do you have a preference for a boy's name?"

"Uhm... what about Jake?"

"Why Jake?" You inquire.

"I dunno, it just sounds cool!" John grins and shrugs his shoulders.

"Fair enough." You smile and call for a waiter. "What say we go to the park?"

"Sure!" John grins and throws the money on the table for a tip before running out with you, gripping your hand loosely to drag you along.

The two of you arrive at your favorite spot in the park, underneath a green willow tree that shields you from the sun. It's a bit far off from the center of the park, but the two of you can still see the children running across the playground from your spot.

"We need to bring them here every weekend." John promises, the two of you on your sides, his body wrapping yours. His hand rubs your shoulder to warm you up from the cold wind.

"Mmm." You nod in agreement, and continue to watch the little rascals jump about. They look so happy, so energetic with their families either watching them or playing with them. You smile to yourself trying your hardest to keep the faintest curve from dipping up, but John notices and kisses the edge of your smile.

"You think we can make good parents?"

"As long as you don't play the computer scare prank on our child, then yes." You joke, to which John gives a fake pout.

"Aw man, but that's like the best part about being a parent!" He leans into your back, his other arm across your glowing abdomen, and you breathe deeply, inhale, exhale.

In, out.

The two of you fall asleep, spending more than half the day there. By the time you wake up, the sun has already begun to set, its zenith slowly declining. John is (soundly) snoring on your chest when you awake, mostly because of his noisy dreaming. You gently stir him awake, to which he sleepily drags himself off you and starts towards the car, dragging his feet along the way.

"Mmf." You gasp, clenching your mouth shut at the sudden kick across your abdomen.

"What?" John questions, concerned for your health. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," you reply curtly, an attempt to raise his spirits, "just a small kick, is all."

John seems to light up at the reply. "Ooh? Can I, uh-"

Instead of having him ramble on like he usually does, you just drag his hand to your belly before he has a chance to comprehend anything. He rubs your stomach as you feel another kick, but with his circling motion across your skin, you don't feel as much pain.

"Heh, heh," John begins to chuckle, crouching down to look as if he were directly talking to your belly, "hey there, little guy. Or girl, uh, hey. It's me, I'm your dad. It is me!"

You hold back a chuckle, leaning back so John can get a better look at your stomach. "John,"

"Yes, Lalonde?"

"Something tells me the sex will be a girl."

"Oh, and what makes you so confident, Miss Cocky?" John gives you a toothy grin as he stands up to meet your eyes.

You give a sly smile. "Mother's instinct."