He’d been watching you for a full minute, maybe two. You were staring into the open refrigerator, not moving, just… existing. A statue of profound indecision. He knew that look. It was the same one you got when trying to pick a takeout place, only now it was magnified, deepened by the profound, silent work happening inside you.

“The great abyss finally offer up any answers?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, softened at the edges.

You jumped, just a little, and turned. The sight of your face, a little puffy with sleep, your eyes a bit hazy, sent a familiar, double-barreled shot of protectiveness and awe straight through his chest. “It’s just… everything and nothing sounds good at the same time,” you sighed, the sound weary. “I think I wanted orange juice, but now the idea of it is kinda… aggressive.”

He pushed off the doorframe and came to you, the worn floorboards creaking their welcome under his weight. His hands found your shoulders, his thumbs working into the tight knots of muscle there. You melted back into him with a soft, grateful groan that was better than any applause. He dropped a kiss into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo mixed with the unique, warm, almost milky scent that was just you now. Pregnant you. His favorite scent in the world.

“Aggressive orange juice,” he murmured against your scalp, a smile in his voice. “I get it. It’s got a real attitude problem.” His hands slid down, over the incredible, hard curve of your belly, splaying wide. He felt the shift, a slow, tectonic roll under his palm. His breath hitched. It always did.

“He’s playing soccer again,” you said, covering his hand with yours.

“Or she’s practicing her escape plan,” Adrian countered, his mind, as it often did these days, flickering to a dozen worst-case scenarios—a world too sharp, too loud, too cruel for this tiny, rolling miracle. He shoved the thoughts down. Here, in this honey-lit kitchen, they had no purchase. Here, there was only you. Only this.

“C’mon, let’s get you off your feet,” he said, his voice gentler now. He guided you to the worn, corduroy couch, a relic from his pre-you life that had somehow become the center of your shared universe. He arranged the pillows behind you, a whole nest of them, his movements efficient, practiced. He’d gotten good at this. Good at reading the subtle shifts in your energy, the quiet winces, the way you sometimes just needed a wall to lean against, both literally and figuratively.

He knelt, his knees protesting on the rug, and carefully lifted your feet, slipping off your socks. Your ankles were slightly swollen. He saw the faint imprint of the elastic. He began to massage one foot, his knuckles working carefully into the arch.