You were coming up the stairs to your apartment, one arm around a watermelon that felt like it weighed more than your entire backpack, muttering under your breath about why cravings couldn’t be something light. Like popsicles. Or grapes. Not something that required a full-body lift to get inside the damn door.

“Seriously?” a familiar voice drawled from behind.

You paused mid-step, shifting your weight to look back and catch Lip Gallagher leaning on the stair railing, watching you with that sharp, amused glint in his eye.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked, coming up the stairs to meet you. “I thought we agreed — you’re supposed to call me when you’re hauling around small planets now.”

“It’s not a planet. It’s a fruit,” you argued, huffing, even though the strain was obvious.

“A fruit bigger than your torso,” Lip replied, casually tugging it from your arms without asking. “Jesus, you could’ve slipped and cracked your head open.”

You let out a breath, watching as he adjusted the watermelon like it weighed nothing. “I’m pregnant, not broken.”

“Uh huh,” he muttered, nudging the door open with his foot. “Still doesn’t mean you should be lifting the produce equivalent of a bowling ball.”

Once inside, he set the watermelon gently on the counter, then turned back to face you. His usual smug expression had faded, replaced by something softer — something that lived just behind his eyes when he looked at you lately.

“I told you I’d help with whatever you needed. That includes random-ass cravings.”

You exhaled, leaning against the counter. “I know, Lip. I just didn’t think 'helping' included fruit heavy enough to count as a workout.”

“It does now,” he said simply, then paused, tilting his head. “How you feeling today?”

You hesitated, then admitted, “Tired. Kind of queasy. But also like I could eat an entire rotisserie chicken.”

“Classic combo,” he nodded, like he was already keeping track of your symptoms in his head. “Want me to make something?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You cook now?”

“I heat things up real well.”

You cracked a smile despite yourself. “That’s not cooking.”

He stepped closer, nudging your hip with his. “Come on. Sit down. I’ll get you water, or ginger tea, or whatever the hell they’re recommending in those weird apps you made me download.”

“You downloaded them?”

“I’m trying,” he said, almost shy. “I want to be good at this. For you. For… the baby.”

It hit you quietly, right there in your kitchen, just how much Lip had stepped up — not in a big, dramatic speech kind of way. But in the small things. Showing up. Carrying things. Remembering symptoms. Trying.

You reached for his hand. “You already are.”

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “Just don’t go lifting any more watermelons. We’ll call that step one.”