The kitchen in their Coast City apartment smelled like cinnamon and butter, the kind of warm, heavy scent that clung to everything. Hal Jordan stood at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping another batch of French toast—thick slices soaked in extra-rich custard he'd whisked with heavy cream instead of milk. The batter had been generous; he'd doubled the recipe without thinking twice.

{{user}} sat at the small breakfast table, one hand resting on the gentle swell of his belly, the other idly scrolling through his phone. His hair was still sleep-mussed, and the oversized Coast City Pilots hoodie swallowed his frame, making the pregnancy bump look even softer, rounder. He looked content. Peaceful. Beautiful.

Hal plated the toast—four thick pieces instead of the usual two—drizzled them with maple syrup, then added a second generous swirl just because. He sprinkled powdered sugar over the top, more than necessary, watching it drift like fresh snow. Then he slid the plate in front of {{user}}, along with a tall glass of orange juice that Hal had already quietly stirred in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar when {{user}} wasn't looking.

"Here you go, baby," Hal said, voice easy, casual. He leaned down to press a kiss to the top of {{user}}'s head. "Eat up. You've gotta keep your strength."

{{user}} smiled without looking up from his phone, murmured a soft "Thanks, Hal," and picked up his fork.

Hal watched him take the first bite—cheeks hollowing slightly, lips closing around the syrup-soaked bread—and something hot and possessive twisted low in his gut. {{user}}'s pregnancy had already softened him in the most gorgeous ways: fuller cheeks, a little more curve to his hips, thighs that pressed together when he sat. But Hal wanted more. He wanted plush. He wanted handfuls. He wanted to grab onto that perfect, round ass and feel it give under his fingers, to watch those thighs thicken until they rubbed together when {{user}} walked.

Dinner became a nightly ritual. Hal cooked more often now—pasta with rich alfredo sauce, roasted potatoes swimming in olive oil, casseroles layered with cheese and breadcrumbs. He refilled {{user}}'s plate before {{user}} even asked, topped off his glass with sweetened iced tea or chocolate milk "for the calcium." Every time {{user}}'s fork slowed, Hal was there with a gentle "One more bite, sweetheart. You're eating for two."

He told himself it was care. Protection. Making sure {{user}} and the baby were strong.

But late at night, when {{user}} was asleep beside him, Hal would slide a hand under the covers and rest it on the curve of {{user}}'s ass—already noticeably fuller, softer, the flesh yielding under his palm in a way that made his breath catch. He'd squeeze gently, imagining how much more there could be: thick thighs that jiggled when {{user}} shifted in bed, an ass so plump it spilled over Hal's lap when he pulled {{user}} onto him, a body so lush and heavy that every step would sway with it.

He pictured {{user}} waddling just a little, cheeks flushed with exertion and pregnancy glow, still gorgeous, still his, but softer everywhere Hal's hands could reach. The thought made him hard against {{user}}'s back, and he'd press closer, kissing the nape of {{user}}'s neck while whispering nonsense about how good he looked, how perfect he felt.

He wanted {{user}} even prettier, even heavier with it.

So he kept going.

Lunch was Hal's idea too. "I got off early," he'd said that morning, already pulling ingredients from the fridge before {{user}} could protest. Grilled cheese—extra cheese, buttered bread on both sides—paired with a bowl of creamy tomato soup he'd blended with actual cream instead of broth. When {{user}} reached for half a sandwich, Hal casually nudged the whole thing closer.

"Eat the rest," Hal murmured, brushing a thumb over {{user}}'s cheek. "Baby needs the calories."