Jensen’s voice drips with concern. I hear him behind me and then his touch is warm on my back.
“Fuck, baby. I’m here.”
I gag, but nothing comes up, and the violent wave subsides into something more bearable. I press a hand to my belly to calm the storm inside me. There’s a slow roll of nausea that sticks to my throat as I suck in a breath through my nose.
I groan. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to be here for this.”
“Of course I’m here.” He says it like I’m crazy for suggesting otherwise.
I sag back against the tub, boneless and weak. “I want you to still think I’m hot, Jensen. Not have visions of me with puke in my hair.”
He stands and I close my eyes to the sound of running water. “Youarehot.”
“A hot mess, maybe.” I swallow more bile. My mouth tastes disgusting. I need to brush my teeth—as soon as my legs work again.
“Mia?” I prise open my eyes, wincing. My handsome, amazing husband is crouched in front of me, tormented, worried. “You still with me, mama?”
That name settles inside me like a warm hug, but it’s doused by the acid burning my tongue. “Ask me in a minute.”
Jensen’s brows come together. “I don’t like this.”
I snort. “I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, Jensen.”
“Your appetite is shit,” he says, “and when you do eat you’re barely keeping anything down. You’re already losing weight when you’re meant to be putting it on.”
The crack of fear in his voice has me reaching for him. “I’m okay.” He doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame him. I can only imagine how bad I look. “Help me up?”
The room tilts as he lifts me off the floor.
Fuck.That’s not fun.
“You okay?”
“Mmhm,” I hum, trying not to puke again.
In the mirror, I catch my reflection. Pale skin and dark circles under my eyes that no amount of sleep ever fixes.
I look wrecked.
Jensen grabs my toothbrush and squeezes some paste onto it. Then he hands it to me like I’m five years old. My hand shakes as I take it from him. Neither of us mention it, though he’s clocked it and added it to the list of things stressing him out about this pregnancy.
He stays close as I scrub my mouth, then I wash my face like it’ll rinse off the exhaustion.
His eyes lock on mine in the mirror, and even though he doesn’t say a word, I know he’s pissed.
“Why didn’t you call me when you got sick?” His voice is dangerously low.
“This isn’t a team sport, Jensen.” I spit into the basin and rinse my toothbrush before placing it in the holder. “You can’t carry this for me.”
I slip past him and go into the closet. I’m already mentally planning what to wear. Comfy, but warm. Something that doesn’t cling too much around my bloated stomach. Something I don’t mind smelling of puke.
Jensen follows me, a sign he’s not letting this go. My pulse flutters wildly as the tension snaps between us. It’s like an elastic band that’s been pulled too tight.
I love him, but he’s driving me crazy. I gave in over Mike. I agreed to stop lifting deliveries and to sit down most of the day.
I didn’t even blink yesterday when I tried to grab a coffee with Juno and I had to wait for Theo to run it past Jensen.
But these things are stacking up—quickly. I’m chafing under the pressure of his care. I’m getting to the point where his hovering is pissing me off.
