"You are not to life one finger, my treasure," Crane says to me.
He takes the hammer from my hands.
"Why?"
"You're with child. Building a treehouse is a physically demanding task. I couldn't possibly let you work in this state."
I put my hands on my hips. "Even if I wasn't in this state, you still wouldn't let me help."
I'm five months pregnant and a second-year newlywed. Crane proposed to me after we graduated college and received six-figure jobs. We married in Scotland, with family and friends watching, teary. We built a custom-house, moved in, and now, we're working on a treehouse. It's a tradition we want to start for our child.
"That is true. It is only because I want to build it for you. It is my anniversary gift to you."
"Then I'm picking the colors and the décor, since you refuse to let do anything."
"But—"
"Nope."
He sighs. "Alright, love. If you insist."
"I do."
He kisses my lips. "Fine."
"This is a lot of work; you'll need help eventually." I look at the blueprint. "You sure you know what you're doing? This is kind of elaborate."
"I'm sure I can manage, treasure."
"So you say."
He doesn't even like to ask for directions sometimes. This will be interesting to see.
He holds my waist. "I believe it will turn out fine. Trust me."
"Alright, Captain. Thank you for doing this."
"I don't mind in the least bit. I love you."
"I love you, too." I kiss him. "You think our little one will like the treehouse?"
"They will love it. Perhaps their own love story will occur because of it."
"Anything is possible."
My stomach growls. "Wanna sandwich?"
"Are you and the baby hungry?" He grins.
"Yup."
"I wouldn't mind one."
We head inside, and he makes us paninis as we talk about the treehouse.