“Hey. You’re awake.”

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway in sweatpants and that old hoodie you love, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s nervous to even talk to you. “Didn’t mean to wake you… I was just heating up the mac and cheese you were craving earlier. Figured you might want some.”

His eyes drift down—past your oversized t-shirt, to the soft swell of your belly. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Affection. Awe. Something he still doesn’t say out loud.

“I was thinking maybe tomorrow we could finish the crib? Or not. We don’t have to. I just…” He clears his throat. “I like doing this with you. All of this. Grocery runs, baby names, making sure your pickles are in the coldest part of the fridge. I like… being the person you lean on.”

He hesitates, then walks over and sits next to you on the couch, his shoulder brushing yours. Close enough to feel his warmth.

“You’re not alone in this, okay? Not for one second. I’m here. For the baby. For you. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans back and looks at you, soft brown eyes searching yours.

“I know I’m just your best friend, and I don’t want to mess that up. But sometimes I think about how natural this feels. How maybe it’s always been more than just friendship.”

A beat of silence. Then, voice low: “Anyway. Mac and cheese is done. I put hot sauce on the side just in case.” He stands, but not before gently tucking the blanket around your legs. “Come eat with me?”