His wife was right where he'd expected to find her: at a table with Janice across from her, two cardboard coffee cups discarded between them. "Hey, Janice," said Sam. "Hey, hon. How many today? Two, right?" It was becoming something of an in-joke greeting between them, but he wasn't entirely joking.

"Two today," Amy agreed, sweeping hair out of her eyes and leaning up for a kiss, "and another tomorrow. But after that we're free for a week, if you can believe it."

Janice looked back and forth at them in perplexion. "You guys lost me."

"Baby showers," Sam said, pulling a chair over to sit next to his wife.

"Christenings," Amy said. Her hand clasped his above the table.

"Pregnancy announcements," Sam said.

"You know, just baby..." Amy's free hand groped for the right word. "Business?"

"Shenanigans," Sam said.

"That's right," Amy said, snapping her fingers, "I knew I married you for a reason." She gave him an exaggerated smooch.

Janice smirked. "You guys do that even at home? How do you ever have arguments if one's always completing the other's sentences?"

Amy shrugged and grinned. "We don't. Convenient, huh?"

"Right, I imagine so," said Janice, still with that smirk. "So, when's it gonna be your turn?"

"What do you mean?" said Sam and Amy at the same time.

"To make an announcement," Janice said, giving them a conspiratorial grin. "To welcome a new member into the family. To be knocked up."

"Oh, not for some time yet, I think," said Amy breezily. "We're still having fun."

"Such as a gazillion baby showers," Janice said, laughing. "Well, all right, Mr. and Mrs. Logan, it looks like you've got appointments of your own. Don't forget to invite me when it's your turn." And they laughed and waved good-bye, but when Janice was gone they glanced at each other, and Sam saw the same troubled expression on her face as he felt on his.

In the car, they discussed it again. "It's just that time of year, I guess. The sun's shining, summer's here, everyone's hormones are in overdrive."

"Or were already," Sam said. "What is it about November that makes people so frisky?"

"It's cold," Amy answered. "People are staying indoors more and trying to find ways to keep warm."

"I guess," Sam said. He couldn't remember if they'd done it more frequently nine months ago. "But just because everybody else is doing it doesn't mean we have to."

"Of course it doesn't," Amy agreed. "But don't you want to do it?"

Sam tried to keep a straight face at that, but the total earnestness of her voice on top of the innuendo was too much. Amy laughed too, a bright smile breaking out across that pixie face, and she swatted him on the shoulder. "Not like that, you dirty man."

"Really?" Sam countered, trying to keep laughter from ruining his best 'innocence' face. "I thought that's exactly how it happens."

Shyness had never been one of Amy's problems. They had met just out of college and he had been entranced by her energy and charm, the mischievous laughter written across every line of her face. They became lovers after a wait that, for both of them, was mostly out of a sense of decorum; since then they had fucked like bunnies, both before and after the honeymoon. They had been wed for a little over two years now, together for just under five, and Sam could not remember being happier.

The party this time was at a modest two-bedroom home in the suburbs. Sam and Amy were mostly strangers; Amy found some of her co-workers, including proud new father Jonathan Stanford, and duly introduced her beloved husband Samuel and was introduced in turn to the new mother Caitlyn, but a fair amount of the cast were a mystery to her. The host, when he was not distracted with hosting duties, made the rounds as best he could, introducing people left and right, explaining that many of the guests were friends of his wife, or people he had gone to college with some ten years before. (Some of those friends, of course, had children too.)

Finally the new mother emerged with the babe cradled in her arms, and a general round of cooing and doting commenced. The daughter (Faith) was barely a month old, tiny fists clenched against her body, her face a mask of grumpy concentration, but no one seemed to mind, least of all her parents, and there were torrents of baby talk and gentle fingers (a little provided by Sam himself). Eventually the infant awoke and began to squall, which her mother quieted by proferring a breast; Jon held a towel before them while she loosened her shirt, and then the enraptured viewing resumed.

Sam watched the happy couple—well, trio now; the mother cradling the child to her breast, the father behind her, standing guard over them both, but all their energies focused on the baby. It was a touching scene, and he was reminded again of what the two of them had silently avoided in all their arguments: that he wanted this. He didn't need to ask Amy, didn't even need to look at her, to know that she felt the same, because she was standing next to him, in the arc of his arm, just the same way the Stanfords were standing as they looked down at their daughter, smiling down at the infant at her breast, knowing their love had become something tangible and real: a child.

The second party was much the same, but better in a lot of ways, because both Sam and Amy knew a lot more of the people there. It was one thing to introduce yourself to multiple people and start making friends, especially when a lot of them had five or ten years on you; it was another to be amongst peers you had known forever. This time it was Cal and Cassie Ernster showing off their son David; there were plenty of jokes about how they'd better name their next child with something that didn't start with a D if they knew what was good for them, Sam had known Calvin since his second year of college; Amy and Cassie had lived together as seniors. David, of course, was new to them, but then that was kind of the point.

It was a much less stuffy party, with some amounts of beer and a lot more noise. Under this cover of chaos, it was Cassie who broached the question: "So, what about you two?"

"What about us two?" Amy asked.

"When are you two going to break the big news?" Cassie asked.

Sam and Amy traded glances.

"We hadn't really..." Sam said.

"Things are super busy at work right now..." Amy said.

"...Cutting back on my hours..."

"...to find a better place than our tiny apartment..."

"...all sorts of ongoing bills that..."

"We never have time to..."

"Yeah, and I'm a vegetarian," said Sam, which earned him a glower from his wife.

Cassie laughed. "I should've known better than to ask the clones. Well, just tell me about the big news, okay?"

It was much the same outside. They retired to the backyard where more of their friends were sitting on the patio, swapping stories and drinking beer. Well, all but one of them was; Lauren's pregnancy was quite visible, and Brad was playing the gallant husband and monitoring her alcohol intake. Lauren looked half pleased and half annoyed.

Crystal, who had no such problems ahead of her, was well on her way to being sloshed. "Lost the coin flip?" Sam asked Jason, and Jason gave a morose nod. Both he and his wife had undergone sterility procedures when they married--"tying the knot and tying the tubes," as they put it--having already made the decision that they would make awful parents, too likely to drink themselves to an early grave. Sam gave them points for not lying to themselves, but in the end, he thought they'd made the right choice—parents should be able to shoulder more responsibility than the bother of flipping a coin to determine which of them would be the designated driver that evening.

"Ah, the lovebugs," Crystal said, not entirely unslurred. "Got an announcement of your own to make?"

"Uhh..." said Amy. "What?"

"Well, you have to know we're all expecting it," Lauren said. She, Amy and Crystal had been an unsinkable trio in college, despite (or, perhaps, because of) how different they were—Crystal with her blonde hair and unabashed sex appeal, Amy as cute as a button, and night-haired Lauren shy and virginal. It was hard to read between the lines sometimes, but Sam had a hunch Lauren had done most of the work to keep them together. In any case she seemed satisfied with it now. "Ever since the two of you met, it's been hearts and rainbows."

"We figured you wouldn't wait one minute," Crystal contributed. She made a rather shaky gesture with her beer bottle. "Figured you'd come back from the honeymoon all glowy and, and knocked-up-y."

"And yet we pine away unsuccored, whilst other people's babies pile up around us," Brad said with his typical taste for the overdramatic. "We thought you'd be first, but now you're far behind. As the kids say it nowadays, What gives?"

Sam glanced at Amy, saw her eyes meet his. They were just as uncertain as his were, which he found strangely reassuring. "Well..." she said. "Unfortunately, the stars haven't lined up quite that well."

"What does that have to do with it?" Lauren asked.

"Well, we don't have our details in place," Sam said. "You guys've been to our apartment, it's tiny. And we don't have the money to—"

"No, I mean, what do all those answers have to do with it?" Lauren asked. "Having a baby isn't about details or timing or whatever. It's about love, and family, and, and wanting to leave something behind. It's about life."

"Yes, but those details are still important," Amy said. "I mean, children are expensive. Imagine not being able to give your son the things he needs because you don't have the money. It's like that. The details aren't right for us right now."

"Guys, they'll never be right," Brad said. "That's the thing. You don't have children because you have nothing else to do with your life—at least unless you wanna be 40. You have them because..." He shrugged. "You decided to."

"Because you can't bear not to," Lauren said softly. She looked down at her belly, upon which both her small hand and her husband's paw rested. "Because you love your children."

"The, umm... The children you don't have yet," Amy said.

"The children we don't have yet," Lauren agreed, not looking up. "You don't know who they are or what they'll be like... but you want to find out. Because you love them. And that's all that matters."

"I mean, you guys think we're all, you know, financially stable?" Brad said. "Ha. Yeah right. I might get laid off next year. But we looked at the situation and we said... This is more important. And whatever I have to do, or Lauren has to do, to make sure our son has the best that life has to offer... We'll do it."

Amy looked at Sam, and he saw the same expression on his face that must have been on his own: Oh god, they're gonna convince us.

Sam turned to Crystal and Jason. "Help, guys?"

"Well..." said Crystal, glancing at her husband; and this time there was nothing unsteady about the gesture. "We've been thinking about... maybe going back in too. Adopting, or maybe even getting the operations reversed."

"What?" said Brad. "You guys? Seriously?"

"We've talked about it," Jason said. "We're not sure what we want to do."

"I thought you thought you'd make lousy parents," Lauren protested.

"And we kinda wanted to live it up, yeah, to have our fun," Crystal said. "We were selfish, I'm not denying it. But the thing is... That's why we wanna do it."

"It's like you said," Jason said, gesturing to Lauren. "We want to leave something behind."

"And know that we grew up," Crystal said.

"Guys, let's face it: we were kids when we got married. None of us is over thirty yet. Well, when Crys and I tied the knot, we were all, you know... Let's have fun, let's mess around. We thought we'd be like that forever. Well..." Jason shrugged. "We were wrong."

"When I think about being a parent, I get scared," Crystal said. "After what my folks did to me... The divorce, and then getting yanked around everywhere, living five or six places before college... And the thing is, my mom didn't do these things on purpose. Of course not. But they happened, because being a parent is hard, there's so many ways to mess it up without looking. But that's why I wanna do it."

"We realized that by tying our tubes we were running away," Jason said. "We weren't ready then, absolutely not, but... Well, we're older now, and maybe even wiser. Maybe we can stand and face it this time."

"So that I can look back at the end of my life and say, 'I didn't back down,' " Crystal said. " 'It was hard, I wasn't perfect, but I didn't back down. I did something important. I raised a child."

There was a short silence, broken only by Crystal's mumbled imprecation: "Christ, I need another drink."

"I think I might too," Amy said.

They were uncharacteristically silent on the drive home. Sam watched the miles streak past under him, his thoughts like windblown leaves. Amy must have been similarly occupied. Normally she could not abide silence, would engage him in conversation or at least turn on the radio. Today, the only sound was the roll of air rushing past. It was both relieving and unnerving.

She came to life as they bustled about handling the various tasks left to handle on a Saturday night—laundry, checking e-mails, lunch dishes that had piled up. For a little while there was companionable silence, broken only to ask questions—and, occasionally, to complete each other's sentences. ...But not often. Their friends liked to play that up because they thought it was cute, and they played it up in public... but it only worked because, more often than not, they were just repeating a conversation they'd already had privately. Most of the time, they were just as telepathic as normal people.

Which was not to say that Sam wasn't fairly good at reading some of his wife's signals by now. For instance, he knew she was expecting him to get frisky on her tonight because she was wearing the pale blue baseball nightie.

By and large, it wasn't her habit to sleep naked, which had caused some inconveniences as they began to spend nights together. Her typical sleepwear consisted of a cotton tank top and a pair of shorts in a supple velvety material, both form-fitting but occasionally difficult to wrestle off. As a compromise, she brought out the old baseball nightie, which hit her mid-thigh and covered everything that needed covering, but could be easily rucked up or removed entirely if he wanted access to anything yummy. Nowadays she wore it most of the time; the only nights she had the shorts and things on were when she was on her period, or if she (for whatever reason) wasn't in the mood.

Even better, about half the time he could convince her to leave the nightie off while they slept. His friends had warned him not to expect that, had told him that she'd be less willing to compromise once they married, and he'd believed their logic; hell, he'd seen the behavior in himself more than once. But at the same time, now that sleeping together was the norm and not the exception, she seemed more cognizant of his wishes. He didn't mind either way. Any morning that he could wake up to the feeling of his wife's skin against his was a happy morning.

She was reading when he arrived, paging silently through a book; he joined her, flipping through a magazine with no real interest. Most of his attention was to the woman to his left—the slow, almost-silent in and out of her breath, the occasional flip of a turned page, the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She never wore them in public, trusting to her contacts, but he'd never understood why; they looked adorable on her.

It was only when her eyes flicked to him that she realized he had been staring. "What?"

"I was just thinking how lovely you are," he said.

Her cheeks went pink, but her whole response was a single raised eyebrow.

"And how glad I am that you agreed to marry me," he said.

"Really, my dear," she said archly, setting the book aside. She knew what was going to happen as much as he did. Which of them had decided it? And did that make their banter foreplay? "And how much is that?"

"Mmm... This much," he said, and leaned in to kiss her.

For a while, they just kissed, with no pressure or urgency. She always turned her head up at a certain angle; it had taken him a while to realize that it was the perfect one to kiss him while he penetrated her. He could feel himself becoming hard at the thought of what lay ahead of them...

Sudden, unexpected, a gust of laughter broke free of his lips, and Amy pulled back to stare at him. "What's funny now of all times?"

"It just occurred to me that every one of our friends is probably saying right now, 'I wonder if Sam and Amy are doing it.' "

For a moment, there was only shock on her face. Then another blush rose alongside an incredulous smile. "Oh god, they probably are..."

"They're all like, 'Are they finally gonna get knocked up tonight? Will we get a call soon?' "

"Jeez, d'you think they're actually like trying to picture us doing it?" Amy said, a burble of laughter sneaking out of her. "Trying to figure out what we're gonna do?"

"Hey, we do it to them all the time," Sam said. "Remember Crys and Jason?"

"Legs wide, going, 'Huh, huh, huh!' " said Amy, producing a string of almost operatic grunts. "That's gotta be what they do!"

"Or Lauren being all squeaky, not really saying anything?" Sam scrunched up his face and gave a series of high-falsetto eep-eeps. "And just being like, 'What do you mean, did I climax?' "

"And dodging the question."

"And dodging the question."

"God... If they do think about us, I guess we can't complain," Amy said, laughing a little. But after that they said nothing for a few moments, and Sam realized that what was on his mind was on hers as well.

At the age of sixteen Amy had come close to losing her leg to an unexpected blood clot. The doctors traced it to birth control pills, which she was taking to stabilize her periods at the time. Rings and patches were out as well, since all of them utilized the same hormonal imbalance; and at that point, she had simply decided to use condoms forever. To a 16-year-old (and a virgin, to boot), that had seemed reasonable... but once she started having lovers in her life, there were other considerations.

And so she had become an expert at detecting her own ovulations and knowing her safe times. There were only about two weeks a month they could go bare, but they had gotten used to it by now; the condom offered other possibilities anyhow, blunting sensation the way it did. And, of course, Trojan loved them.

"When is it in your cycle?" he asked.

"It's..." Her eyes unfocused for a bit. "It's on the cusp. It could start on Monday. It could start now."

They looked at each other in silence. Sam wondered what she was thinking. His own mind was largely empty, waiting on her reply.

"Do you still want to do it?" he asked.

"Well, yeah," she said—not a smile, nor a giggle; just calm urgency, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He could've sworn his dick got harder at her words. "We just... gotta decide about the condom."

"...Later," he said, leaning into her again. "First I wanna get my hands all over my lovely wife."

This time he let his hands wander as he kissed her, feeling the perfect smoothness of her skin, finding the secret places where his touch made her weak—the soft places under her earlobe, her neck warm from its mane of hair, the little hollows of her collarbones. Soon her breathing was heavy, and his hands had descended beneath her nightie. She sat up and in a single motion shed herself of it, leaving her body bare to his touch.

He had always loved her body, and tonight was no exception. Her skin was flawless, her curves divine; her breasts were just large enough to flaunt some cleavage, but not to get in the way otherwise. But what he loved to look at the most, had always loved to look at the most, was her face: those laughing eyes, the button nose, the bright and unselfconscious smile. His friends had laughed when he admitted a woman's face was the first place he looked... all but one or two of them, who had simply nodded to themselves, and confessed later that they did the same thing. "Tits and ass are all well and good, but the face is where the heart is." It was so with Amy as well: her body was lovely, but it was her face—and her heart—that had drawn him.

He moved in to kiss her, and she leaned back, drawing him down onto her. He kept to one elbow, letting the other hand stroke her hair, her face, her shoulder. He sprinkled kisses all over her face—her forehead, the tip of her nose, her eyelids—before beginning to make his way down her neck. He kissed the hollows of her neck, the rim of her collarbone, the smooth pale skin of her shoulders, and finally began his approach to her breasts.

They were small but shapely, the size of pears, and perfect for her relatively small frame. Her nipples were brown pebbles, small but exquisitely sensitive; one of his favorite games in their younger, friskier days had been to tantalize her while they were out on the town with the merest brush of finger or palm across her breast, touches so slight as to be accidental... but that would light a fire beneath her as the evening progressed. Quite a few times she'd torn his clothes off the instant they got home. A couple times she hadn't waited that long. He stopped doing it after a while because he could always tell that she found it a little annoying, even if she kept it to herself. "Besides," she told him, "if you do that before we leave, you don't have to wait until we get home."

He didn't have to wait today either. He let his lips wander over her skin, kissing here and there seemingly at random, before making his final approach to her nipple. It wasn't much larger than his own, nor much harder... at least, at the moment. A few kisses and some licking, and the story was starting to change.

Her breathing grew heavy as he kissed the sensitive nub, licked it, ran his lips from side to side over it. She had been in his bed for years; he knew how to please her by now. He closed his lips around it and applied his tongue, flicking it back and forth in measured swipes (what little of it there was to reach), before taking the final measure to drive her wild: firming his lips, he pulled, sucked, stretching the little point out from the curve of her breast, making her moan.

Now her hand reached out; he felt it land first on his thigh, and then wander higher, finding the good stuff up between them. He was already half-hard; within moments she had finished the job. As he switched to her other nipple, drawing yet another moan from her chest, her hand stroked up and down his cock, and soon he began returning the favor. His free hand traced the curves of her hip, the lean strength of her thigh, the crease of her knee.

As his hand wandered across her body, his mind did as well. These pert breasts—what would they look like full of milk? The smooth flat plane of her stomach: what would it be like to have it great with child? If his hand lingered... here... would it one day feel the kick of the babe inside? Would her beauty be diminished by pregnancy, or enhanced?

And were her thoughts in the same place? When his hand found the cleft of her thighs, the juncture at the bottom of her body, the tender flesh of her pussy was already warm and wet.

She shuddered as his fingers made contact with her clit, began their customary rubbing. Her clit, like her nipples, was small, but he'd read somewhere that its size made it more sensitive. He loved it when she sucked him off, but he didn't much care to return the favor, preferring to use his fingers instead—did that make him a bad person? She never seemed to complain.

"Look at me," he whispered, and her eyes met his. They were a perfect blue, and large now with need. He curled his other arm under her, gathering her to him. Her shoulder was cool and round in his hand, but he could feel the tension in the rest of her, the trembling energy building down below. "I want to see your face when you cum."

"Well, k-keep it up and you'll g-get your wish," she gulped. Her pelvis pushed up against hish and, and her voice was trembling—a sure sign that she was getting close. "God, babe, it feels s-so good—" And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, she was there, her eyes flying open as release washed over her, her body shuddering under his hand. Even from the surface he could feel the muscles of her pussy clenching, spasming, squeezing, a crescendo that left her still and breathless in his arms.

"Oh Sam," she breathed.

He kissed her. "I love you too."

"Mmm," she said, reaching up with one hand to drag him down to her. The other left his cock, wrapped around his hip. She began to urge him over her. "Baby, you need a reward for that." Her voice was dusky, half whisper and half murmer; it was the voice that said that she couldn't have enough. "And I need a reward for living through that."

He suspended himself between her legs, above her breasts now slick, nipples firm. He was not sure how to proceed. Should he go for a condom? This would be a good time to stop. But before he could say anything, she was positioning his cock at her entrance, at that slick tunnel that led into the core of her body. He felt the kiss of her lower lips at the tip of his cock, and before consciousness could prevent him, he was sliding into her warm wet depths.

She had leaned up to kiss him, his mouth opening in anticipation, but instead their moans of pleasure mingled at the perfect union.

She grabbed his neck with one hand, his back with the other; her legs wrapped themselves around his waist. "You make me feel so good," she whispered.

"You feel pretty good yourself," he replied. Was he supposed to be able to feel the difference between women's pussies? Some were smaller, some were larger; each should have their different shape; but the ones he'd sampled all more-or-less felt the same: good. They were warm and wet and stroked his cock, and it seemed churlish to ask for more. And yet there was something more to Amy's body, something stronger and more intoxicating. Was it the blue eyes, their pupils huge and warm? Was it her mouth, half open in a gasp of pleasure? The small pert breasts, the peach-shaped butt? Or was it something else?

"Wanna feel better?" she asked.

"S-sure," he said.

"Then come on, babe," she said, still in the voice of sex. "Let's do it."

He began to move atop her, withdrawing and re-entering. Sometimes he would speed up, ram into her, but today his thrusts were slow, deliberate, rhythmic. Each thrust drew a gasp from her lips, a squeeze from her hands on her skin; each thrust she met with her hips, tilting back, pushing herself up to meet him. If he pushed himself up on elbows he could look down the length of his body, see their joining, but when he tried she pulled him back down to him, pushing her breasts up against his chest, cradling him to her until they were face to face, body to body, heart to heart.

He felt the pressure building deep within, the red feeling in the tip of his cock. "Baby, I'm close."

When her hands moved down to his ass, he knew what she would say before she said it. "Go on," she whispered. "Do it. Give it to me."

He did.

Just a few more thrusts, and the pressure was too much. He pushed deep within her and gave a groan as his body let loose its seed, the glands clenching, the rush of cum surging down his shaft, his ultimate tribute to her loveliness coursing out into her. Her hands squeezed his ass in time with each squirt. She locked her arms around him, held him close, steadying his trembling body, and kissed the sweat from his face, and when he was done, drew him down to cradle him with her body.

"Mmmm," she sighed. "I love feeling that in me. I hate condoms."

"Can you feel it?" he asked. "The... I mean, if I'm inside you when you come, I can't really tell." It was part of why he loved using his fingers on her: they were much more sensitive to vaginal spasms than his cock was.

"Mmm... Yes and no," she said. "I can feel you, like, stiffen, and the way your body feels over mine... It's obvious. But if you're asking if I can feel you actually shooting... well, no. But that's why I like to grab your ass when you cum. I can feel the squeezing." He both felt and heard her smile. "And for the rest... Mmm. Well, I have a great imagination."

He kissed her neck, the only bit of her he could reach without moving his head. The aftermath was one of his favorite parts of sex: just lying here, juicy, languid, their limbs tangled, with no need to move or rush or make, nothing urgent to address. Her body was warm and firm under his, her hair fragrant; her neck made a perfect cradle for his chin. In some ways this was the moment when their union was strongest: the moment when all resistance ceased and their bodies simply oozed together. Sometimes, in the deepest post-orgasmic daze, he could not tell where his flesh ended and hers began.

But they had something urgent to address.

"You said your cycle was..."

He felt the rise and fall of a sigh. "It's on the cusp. I may be... I mean, it also depends on how long sperm lingers. It can stick around in the reproductive track for days, is my understanding."

"So, basically..."

"It might be a safe time. ...Or it might not."

He sighed too, and there was silence for a time. The feeling of her body under his was not as comforting as it had been a moment ago. He could feel sweat drying on his back, on the rise of her chest. His cock was softening within her as well, though they were joined so closely that it hadn't slipped out of her pussy yet. There was a lot of hair against his face.

"So... What do you think we should do?" he asked.

"I think... I think we should let the cards fall where they will," she said finally. "There are all these questions in the air... Should we do this, should we do that. Did we do this, did we do that. Well, maybe we should just let fate take its course and find out."

"Is that safe?"

"Evidently, no safer than trying to control it."

He pushed up onto his elbows to look at her. "Do you think we're ready?"

Her eyes were serious. "Maybe... Maybe we've always been. If this child were here... Sam, I would do anything for him. Her. It. Whatever. Whatever we needed to do... I'd do it. And I know you feel the same."

He nodded. He did. "And maybe that's all we need."

"And if it's not... Well, I guess we'll find out."

"I guess we will," he said, and rolled off of her.

They curled up like shrimp on a rack, his arm over her, sheltering, protective. Again he found himself wondering what it would be like to feel a belly swollen under his palm, the flesh warm with life.

"What'll we name it?" Sam asked.

"Emerald," Amy said.

"Yes, just what I've always wanted to call my son," Sam chortled.

"Emmett," said Amy.

"You've put some thought into this," he said.

She swatted his arm with a free hand. "And you haven't? You know we'll have one some day."

"It'll be the adventure of a lifetime, that's for sure," he said.

"One we'll have together," she said, snuggling deeper into his arms.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."