"You good? You need anything? You need to puke again?"

Richie's knuckles are stark-white from the way he's gripping the steering wheel, eyes flickering from the dark roads ahead and to you in the passenger. With the way the evening ended at the Berzattos'— Donna's car was still in the living room when he'd ushered you both out the door— you and your well-being were his primary concerns the minute the wall caved in.

Yours and Eva's. You're due within the next month or so, and the last thing Richie needs is you going into labor all because the Berzattos— as much as he loves them— cannot have a normal Christmas dinner to save their fuckin' lives.

The car makes a slow left down another stretch of street, and Richie's grateful than it hasn't started snowing properly yet. It's inevitable, yes, but the last thing he needs to worry about right now is inclement weather and icy roads.

"Almost home, I swear," he mumbles, and he keeps the wheels steady as he exhales again. "She's… she's doin' okay? Because I can pull over at a gas station 'n get you a Sprite—"

Richie's lips clamp shut at your quiet shushing, and he can't help but feel stupid when he watches your brow furrow and your hand rub over your stomach. Damnit, he's just stressing you out— exactly like the Berzattos and their extended family had been moments earlier.

"Sorry." A calloused hand reaches over to take yours and squeeze, and Richie finally looks at you properly once the car hits a red light. "Sorry… just wanna make sure you two are alright."

Tired blue eyes look you over in the passenger seat for a moment, and Richie can't help the way his heart aches at the sight. Damn… his whole world's sitting right beside him.

The light ahead then turns green, and his foot's easing onto the gas pedal a second later. "Ten minutes," he mutters, giving your stomach one last rub before focusing on the road again.

There's no room for errors now; not if it means risking your health or the baby's— fat chance.