He meets you at the curb.

No hesitation, no patience. He practically yanks the passenger door open before you’ve even put the car in park. His face is flushed, blue eyes bright with excitement like he’s about to announce you won a contest. And in a way, you did. The nurse said everything looked perfect. Baby heartbeat strong. Measurements ideal. Nothing to worry about.

You’re barely unbuckled before he’s got the seat tilted back and is reaching in like he’s scooping up treasure. His palm smooths over your belly with reverence, thumb dragging in slow, distracted circles over the curve of it. He’s wearing the shirt again. Girl Dad in bold white letters stretched across his ridiculous chest. You haven’t even confirmed the gender. But he’s already manifesting it into existence with the blind, idiotic hope of a man too in love to care if he’s wrong.

And of course, he’s crying again.

Just a little. Eyes shiny. That crooked, lip biting smile twitching like he’s trying to keep himself together and failing. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. You already know what’s going through his mind. The hospital bag is packed three months early. The stroller is assembled and parked in the hallway like a car in a showroom. He’s been watching car seat tutorials at night and making lists in his phone: diaper brands, wipes, organic shampoo, swaddle methods. He cried at the OBGYN’s slideshow about the stages of labor. You nearly smacked him.

Now, on the drive home, he’s bouncing in the seat like a golden retriever hopped up on espresso. Dad shorts on. The cargo kind. Pockets bulging with gum and pens and his folded up birth plan printout. Hat on backward. One hand on your belly, like he’s guarding it.

When you hit a red light, he turns his head toward you with that look. The one that could peel you apart if you let it. All quiet intensity and devastating softness. Like you hung the stars. Like you are the stars.

He presses a kiss to your knuckles. Another to the spot right below your wrist. Then to the stretch mark blooming along your side. Your shirt has ridden up. He doesn’t adjust it. Just traces the edge of your belly with his fingertips and breathes like the weight of it centers him.

When you pull into the driveway, he unbuckles and bolts from the car like you’re carrying the Messiah. He loops around, opens your door, helps you out like you’re made of glass and silk. His hands never stop moving, brushing hair from your face, touching your stomach, tugging the seatbelt off your chest in the car like you’re incapable of doing it yourself. He’s so annoying. He’s so in love.

Inside, the air smells like lavender and the baby detergent he tested on every single fabric in the house. You see the new baby gate already screwed into the wall. He ordered it last night. Installed it this morning. While you were sleeping.

There’s a new stuffed animal on the couch.

You point. He nods sheepishly. “Couldn’t resist,” he mumbles, looking away.

He makes you sit. Feet up. Ice water already waiting in your favorite cup. Your vitamins are on the table. He brings them with a granola bar and a forehead kiss. Then he drops to his knees beside the couch like you’re a queen on a throne and he’s the most loyal knight ever born.

Both hands splay across your belly, broad and warm. The smile he gives you is painful. Too much devotion in one man. He buries his face against you and breathes deep, whispering something you don’t catch. Probably “I love you,” or “please be a girl,” or “I’m already yours.”

You lean back and close your eyes, letting his warmth, his presence, his overwhelming Dick Grayson-ness wrap around you. He’s too much. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

"Do you need anything, sweetheart?" He mumbles, big blue eyes flicking between you and where his hands are resting. You're not sure if he's talking to you or your belly.