The rain drummed against the window in a steady rhythm, a lullaby nature composed just for us. Outside, the world was being washed clean. Inside the cabin, the world was just us—me, Alice, and the two tiny lives growing inside her.
We were in bed, propped against the headboard, a pile of baby name books scattered between us like evidence of a beautiful obsession. Alice had been at this for hours, her laptop open, tabs upon tabs of names from every culture, every language, every possible origin.
"Okay, hear me out," she said, her eyes sparkling with that mischievous light I'd learned to love. "Ocean."
I stared at her.
"Ocean."
"Yes. For a boy. Ocean Bennett-Hill."
"Ocean."
"You're repeating me. That means you're considering it."
"I'm repeating you because I'm trying to understand if
