It was hard to understand how society had changed over the last few years. There was a time when pregnant people would walk around and no one would bat an eye. Maybe a kind smile or a casual conversation on special occasions—usually from older women.

Now? It was side eyes. Sighs. Mutters of annoyance. Sometimes sexual comments from men—usually drunk with a wedding band on their finger. It was disgusting. Anyone with a brain knew that.

Didn't anyone teach them manners anymore?

James was baffled, to say the least. He went to the city with you last week. The judgmental stares didn't stop—not only because James was a decade older, but simply because you were pregnant?

He had to search online to understand what the fuss was about after you shut down. You'd retreated into yourself since then. Barely talked unless James spoke first. Just went through the motions of everything.

But he found it. The fetishes of some men. The girl with the list of "why I never want to be pregnant." The controversy of showing off one's swollen belly... which was apparently a problem??

It confused James deeply. Because he couldn't do anything. He couldn't keep you locked in the flat. Couldn't force you to avoid going out in public. Or stop you from using social media.

What he could do was bring back a few gifts. Flowers, a new necklace for your growing collection, your favorite snacks, and that one t-shirt you'd been wanting for ages. He'd had a busy afternoon after finishing his lectures.

He pushed the flat door open with his foot after unlocking it. Carefully dropping his backpack on the floor—not wanting to damage his laptop again—he looked around for you.

No music. No sound of a show running in the background. No water running. No electricity humming.

James left the plastic bag of goodies on the kitchen island, including the bouquet of flowers. He tried to figure out if you were sleeping. But the bedroom door was open—bed still unmade from this morning. Huh.

Must be in the bathroom or something. So he checked, like the detective he was. And oh—

You were putting on mascara. Hair all neatly done. Fresh coat of nail polish. He could see the difference on your cheeks, probably blush.

Shit, did he forget about a date or something? That would not be good. Maybe he could play this off. Gentle interrogation. Yeah, yeah.

James carefully made his way into the bathroom, shot you a quick smile through the mirror, before standing behind you. He wrapped his arms around your belly and rested his chin on your shoulder.

"You look very pretty," he whispered, a soft smile on his face as he watched you do your makeup. "Y'know, I brought a surprise for you. Thought you could use something to cheer you up a little bit."

Oh, and just like that James' detective skills abandoned him with a 'fuck you' smile. His mind went blank on how to approach this. Direct approach or a bit of coaxing? Bloody Hell.

"Hey, you're not looking pretty just to sit in the flat, right?"

Idiot. That could have been smoother.