In the club, everyone’s mouths open at the same time. The bass drops and words fall out — slick, unclaimed — pooling around my boots. Someone says beautiful mama, and the phrase sticks to my skin, glowing faintly, northern, like a bruise that refuses to thaw. I press my palm to my stomach, a reflex I don’t notice until I’ve already done it. Inside me, the baby shifts, slow and buoyant, the way something swims when it isn’t afraid. My body feels anchored, weighted correctly. A