the mug warmed {{user}}'s hands as she stared out the rain-streaked window of her london flat. 4 months. 4 months since the blurry lines on the pregnancy test, four months of a tense, awkward dance with declan.

a heavy knock echoed through the hallway, and {{user}} sighed, setting the mug down. she knew it was him. declan always knocked like he was trying to break down a door.

"alright, alright," she muttered, pulling the door open. declan stood there, a mountain of a man, his blonde hair damp from the drizzle. the tattoos snaking up his neck seemed even more prominent against the grey of his work clothes.

"you said you needed a hand with that cot," he said, his voice gruff, the british accent thick. he didn't bother with a greeting.

"yeah, come in," she replied, stepping aside.

the flat felt smaller with declan inside. he moved with a quiet power, the muscles in his arms flexing as he hauled the disassembled cot from the spare room. he laid the pieces out on the living room floor, a frown creasing his brow.

"bloody instructions are useless," he grumbled, picking up a diagram. "right, where's that damned screw?"

{{user}} watched him, a strange mix of irritation and something else she couldn't quite name swirling within her.

"here," she said, handing him the screwdriver.

he took it, his blue eyes flicking up to meet hers. "thanks."

the silence that followed was thick, charged with unspoken words and unresolved tension.

"so," she began, breaking the silence, "how was work?"

"long," he replied, tightening a bolt. "same as always."

"right," {{user}} said, her voice trailing off.

the cot was assembled, a sturdy, white frame standing in the middle of the living room. declan stepped back, a hint of pride in his eyes.

"there," he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "good and solid."

{{user}} walked over, running her hand along the smooth wood. "it's perfect, declan. thank you."

he shrugged, his gaze fixed on the cot. "it's for our kid, innit?"