It had been a shock. Nobody in their right mind would want a child at this age. Not because James was broke—far from it. But because he quit university to step up. A joint effort, in his eyes. In yours, it went more along the lines of: "Don't be stupid, James. One of us needs a degree. We're never getting jobs without them."

And suppose that was true. But what would James do with an English Literature degree? Become a university professor? An author? A ghostwriter? Proofreader? The fact was, James wanted to be present. He wanted the whole blue-collar thing. He couldn't stand the thought of sitting in a chair all day answering emails and phone calls for some big company. White-collar work would have sucked the life out of him.

You both knew it. James didn't have an ounce of patience in his system to work a normal 9–5.

But James knew that you did. The schedules were messy. You worked at a bookstore in town because the lady running it had sympathy for your situation—being pregnant and freshly dropped out of university. You couldn't stomach the stares, even if nobody was actually looking. James understood, which is why he dropped out with you.

He started at a construction company at the bottom of the food chain. In his humble opinion, it was cool. He did the basics, his coworkers helping him out—at least the ones who could stand James' insatiable yapping.

The money James made was purely for the baby. He'd inherited enough from his parents to last a good few years. He managed to find a flat close to your job. You two had been living there for two months now. It was comfortable—good view, quiet neighbors, good insulation.

It was a place he could call home.

And he loved coming back to it.

After a long day of work, James turned the keys to the flat. He stepped inside, shrugged off his vest, and took off his shoes. Gods, I need a shower. Definitely. Later though, because his senses quickly picked up the smell of something cooking. Probably stir-fry.

He walked further into the kitchen and saw you there, your swollen belly hidden by his maroon hoodie. Maroon looked good on you, he thought. You had that concentrated look in your eyes as you cooked, earphones plugged in.

Either James could interrupt the moment or—

"Are you going to keep staring or help?" you said, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow.

A smile tugged at James' lips. "Hm, might keep staring with that attitude of yours."

Despite that, he walked up behind you. He placed a kiss on your shoulder and looked over to see what you were making. But he was more concerned about other things.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly, reaching out to remove one earphone so that he could have a decent conversation without all the "huh" and "what" repetition.