Did my life change once I became Negan's Mrs? Not really. Not openly. He didn't force our people to kneel for me, not that he didn't fucking offer the 'honor' to me. I'm not entirely sure what look crossed my face when he gave me the option, but seeing his grin grow, it must have been pretty fucking funny.

Laura found the entire situation funnier than I did. Teasing me with "Mrs. Negan" every now and then to see my glare flash at her. I'd found a friend in my head guard, and she got far more leeway with the teasing than anyone else would have dared to try. Friendships blossom as a woman grows to the size of a barge and she has to ask for help every time she wants to get up from a seated or prone position, I tell ya. And Laura was becoming very skilled at craning my ass up from wherever I'd dare to sit.

As the months continued to flicker past, and our little monster continued to grow inside of me, the anticipation grew. Along with my hormonal mood swings.

I'd given up on the pregnancy book. I'd decided that learning MORE about the horrors that awaited me at the end of this never ending tunnel were better left as a surprise.

Negan had thrown himself into build a nursery mode. He declared the nursery off limits to me. Promising that as soon as he was finished, I'd be welcome to see the majestic room that would be fit for our little demonic offspring.

The problem with that edict was this: the date was looming near and I still hadn't gotten invited inside. That and the CONSTANT fucking noise. Pounding, growling, cussing, and once I even swore I heard him carrying a full blown screaming match inside. I was worried, not only fearing that our baby was going to have to sleep in a damn drawer in our dresser, but also because I couldn't fucking rest with all the fucking noise. Not a fucking nap to be had, and there were fucking nights that he'd wear my ass out from multiple shaking orgasms, only to leave our bed and start up again.

I wondered, while he was pounding in the nursery at all hours day and night, who the fuck was running the Sanctuary?

I shouldn't have worried about that. Laura laughingly told me that he was running the whole damn place from the nursery. Using the walkie, hell having meetings, all while working hard to build the furniture for the baby nightmare.

One evening, after we'd had a dinner that I'd fixed in our own kitchen, Negan seemed to realize how damn huge I was, how close to show time. I saw something fight across his features, but as fucking exhausted I was by the tiny bit of rest I was getting, I couldn't fathom what it was.

"Baby girl," his voice would always be one of my favorite parts of him, I swear. "Aren't you supposed to be having weird cravings?" That's what was flickering inside his mind? The fact that I wasn't asking for pickles and ice cream?

I shrugged. "Not all women do." I yawned and stood to collect our empty plates. He rose with me, rubbing that part of my back that was a constant knot. And I leaned into him, the length of me against the front of him. I swear, between the massage he was giving that damn knot, the scent of him, and his heat, I drifted off standing up.

I woke up in our bed and knew that I had fallen asleep standing up. I was curled into his warmth, his arms wrapped around me, and my head on his chest. I was just cuddling deeper when I realized he wasn't asleep. Propping my chin on his chest, I could see his eyes on me in the dim light from the bathroom light he'd left on.

"What are you staring at?" I asked, my voice dry from sleep. His lips curled in a smile, those damn dimples deepening.

"The mother of my baby." He answered, his hand coming up to touch my face. "The exhausted mother of my baby." The pad of his thumb brushed under my eye, touching the dark circles I wore lately. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't sleeping?"

I chuckled. "Because, Negan," I dropped my head back to his chest, snuggling into his t-shirt. "I didn't want to stop whatever progress you were making in the nursery." I heard him inhale. Oh, now you realize you made enough fucking noise to raise the dead.

And then he chuckled, low and deep, causing something to stir deep inside of me. And I wasn't talking about our little devil spawn. I felt his lips touch my hair, and I could hear his smile in his voice. "My progress?" Another chuckle. "Sweetheart, I'm not sure progress is the right fucking word."

I considered what he was saying. Did that fucking mean that NOTHING was built? That our baby was literally going have to sleep in a fucking dresser drawer? Shit. "Not going well?" I was shocked at how unconcerned I managed to sound. Because I was more than fucking concerned, let me assure you.

"Nothing makes sense in the fucking instructions." He said, building momentum as he went. "So I opened a different box, a different fucking piece of the picture, and those fucking instructions made less fucking sense." I kept my face down, hiding the shock, and the freak out that I felt building. "Which made me open another box-" Dear fucking God, I could see it, the entire fucking nursery wall to wall with pieces of everything with no discernible fucking rhyme or reason. Fuck. "It's chaotic there. Fucking chaos." I could hear that it wasn't exactly something he was proud of, that he was as irritated with himself as I was freaked out by the thought of Baby Negan sleeping in a fucking drawer. "And I've had my best fucking people up here, trying to fucking make sense of it. I fucking swear the instructions aren't in fucking English, or Spanish, or fucking a language known to man."

Fuck. We're screwed, I thought, directing the fear at Satan's grandkid. You better be fucking small, little one, because that fucking drawer is gonna be a tight fit.

"We could always just borrow some stuff from Alexandria." I was careful NOT to say 'from Dad'. Negan's ego at failing in this ONE task he'd set for himself would fucking go into overload at the mere mention of my dad saving the fucking day.

I felt him to fucking rigid under me. Fuck. "I don't think that's necessary, princess." Sure, it's not fucking necessary at fucking all. I'm sure the baby will love to lay in a mass of wood and screws. I mean, the pieces are all there, they just aren't in the right order. It's the thought that counts, right?

As I lay with my husband, in our bed, letting my exhaustion win and pull me under, my final thought was of our tiny little devil, horns and all, smiling up at me from my underwear drawer. All those fucking pieces of lace and satin cradling the tiny red body, and the little forked tongue flicked out at me.

No, I don't fucking actually think that my little nugget is a demon. I woke up and remembered what I had drifted off to, and wanted to smack myself. Vivid fucking dreams were a really shitty part of this pregnancy, but that one fucking pissed me off. I may tease, internally, Negan's biological father's identity, but our baby had just as much me as him, so I was fucking certain that they would come out looking human. Hell, Negan looked like a fucking walking wet dream, so I had good cause to feel confident that we'd made a pretty baby.

It was exhaustion. Coupled with irritation and fear of our lack of completed nursery. And my internal urge to compare my husband to his fallen angel father didn't help.

When I woke up, Negan wasn't in bed, and I was tangled up in ALL of the blankets. Which added exponentially to my already unwieldy self. I was groaning, and fighting to get free and up, when he peeked out of the bathroom. I could see his smirk, but I also saw him coming to free me, so I didn't bite his hand when he started loosening me from the mess I'd created during sleep. Once the blankets and sheets released me, he gave me his hands and pulled me to a sitting position. Ugh. I would need a literal crane soon. I fucking knew it.

Negan sat beside me, pulling me into his side. "Feeling better?" He tipped my chin so he could look into my face. His thumb ran under my eyes again, and I wondered if the circles were less raccoon-like yet.

I nodded, smiling up at him. I could go to bed feeling so fucking irritable at his stubbornness, but wake up and see him and feel far better than I should. My hand went to my huge bump and I felt our baby nudge me. Negan's hand joined mine, and there it was again. A little push. A nudge to say "yeah, I'm awake too."

"Active today," Negan whispered, kissing my temple. "Seems our little one isn't as opposed to mornings as their mama is." His eyes, such a gorgeous shade of honey brown today, were sparkling.

I smirked up at him. "Hey, their mama doesn't complain nearly as much as she used to about waking up early." I reminded him, and watched his eyes darken at the memories of all the ways he'd taken to convince me. "You know, husband of mine, I think that you and me, and this destroyed bed could take a few minutes to remind me how fucking amazing mornings can be." I raised an eyebrow, and watched him consider it.

"Shit, what I wouldn't fucking GIVE to give into you right fucking now, wife." His smile grew. "BUT," he stood up and held out his hands for me to take. "You have a previous engagement this morning."

My nose scrunched up as he pulled me upright. "You're turning me DOWN? For sex?" I felt a glare form on my face. Damn it, I wanted to, NOW. "And what stupid fucking engagement trumps me, and you, NAKED?"

He laughed, the boisterous one that bubbled around him. "Your face, Callie, is fucking priceless when you're denied." He shook his head and tugged me to the bathroom. "Nothing trumps you naked, princess, nothing." He started to undress me, tugging my tank over my head, shucking my sweats off my legs. "Except," he stopped me reaching for him. "Your check up with the doctor." Fuck.

He pushed me toward the shower streaming warm water that he'd set as I woke up. Ugh. I hadn't paid attention when he'd rescued me from the bed, but he'd already dressed. Which meant, I was going to have a lonely fucking shower. Yuck. He saw my pout and gave another bark of laughter. Asshole.

"Just think, darlin'. The last time we held off, we nearly fucking destroyed a wall." And with that fucking reminder, he walked out of our bathroom whistling.

I showered, growling about the indignity of having to do it solo. Of being denied the ONE thing that made mornings fucking bearable. Of the fact that he seemed so fucking unaffected by the loss of it. Of me. Of sex. Of sex WITH me.

When I stepped out of the shower, grabbing the towel he'd set out for me, I was still steaming. Seriously? I FINALLY got rest. I was FINALLY fully awake. And he'd fucking say "nope?" Fucker. Asshole. I kept up a steady stream of names and rage as I dried off. As I brushed through my wet hair. As I braided my hair. When I stomped into our bedroom and found it empty, I literally growled. Out loud.

Grabbing a pair of leggings. Throwing on a bra and a loose fitting tank so my bump wouldn't be restricted. Sliding my feet into the same shoes that I'd worn last because they were easy to reach, I kept up my internal cursing of my husband. The father of my little demon seed. I knew he'd be in the kitchen. After all, it was morning and I had to fucking eat.

And there he was, whistling as he put food on a plate for me. Turning to smile at me, dimples full blown and looking supremely fucking content. Asshole. "Come have your breakfast, sweetheart."

Fuck you, I thought, but I took a seat when he held out my chair. I picked up my fork and started to eat. Not waiting for him to join me. Screw him. Screw our morning ritual. Screw the fucking birds and the sun and Dr. Carson and his fucking groping hands that he needed to use to make sure baby demon seed was where they were supposed to be. Just fucking screw everything.

Yes, I was being irrational. Of course some tiny part of the rational me, the one not overwhelmed by hormones jacked up by an alien invader knew that. But that part was being smothered by the other part. The irrational hell bitch who wanted her morning orgasm like normal people wanted their morning coffee.

I chewed through my entire breakfast in silence. I didn't even notice if he joined me. If he tried to make conversation. My entire being was focused on my fucking rage. He'd asked the night before why I didn't have any weird fucking cravings. Well apparently my fucking weird fucking craving was HIM. Fuck.