"For asking about the exhaustion. For caring about whether I'm okay."
He glances at me, then back at the road. "Of course I care. You're—" He stops himself. "You're carrying my kids. Your health is their health."
Right. It's about the babies, not me. I shouldn't feel disappointed by that, but I do anyway.
Back at the apartment, Tucker disappears to his room and returns with a printed Fury calendar. He spreads it on the kitchen island.
"I want to show you my schedule. So, you know when I'll be gone."
I study the calendar. It's color-coded—green for home games, red for away games, blue for practices. The away games are clustered in brutal stretches.
"Four days here," Tucker says, pointing. "Three days there. The longest stretch is six days in December."
"That's a lot of travel."
"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "I hate it. Hate the idea of being gone that much when you're pregnant."
"It's your job."
"I know. But—" He stares at the calendar. "I'm going to miss things. Appointments, maybe. Important moments."
"We'll FaceTime," I offer. "And lots of people have jobs that take them away from home. We'll figure it out."
"My dad managed it," Tucker says, more to himself than to me. "When he was still playing. He made it work."
"Then so will we."
He looks at me, something unreadable in his expression. "You keep saying 'we.'"
"Isn't that what this is? Co-parenting?"
"Yeah. It is." But he sounds uncertain, like he wants to say something else.
The moment stretches between us, loaded with something I'm not ready to name. Then Tucker's phone buzzes and he breaks eye contact to check it.
“Almost time for anger management part deux,” he says. "You okay if I go?"
"Of course. Your job is important.”
“So is yours,” he says. "And I don't want to leave if you need something."
"I'm fine. I'm just going to work on my statistics coursework."
"Okay." He hesitates. "But text me if you need anything. I can come back."
After he leaves, the apartment feels too quiet. I settle on the couch with my laptop and statistics textbook, determined to make progress on the incomplete.
But I can't focus. My mind keeps drifting to Tucker asking the doctor about my exhaustion. To his hand holding mine during the doppler. To the way he keeps saying "our apartment" like he's trying to convince himself I belong here.
I give up on statistics and start unpacking boxes instead, claiming space in this enormous remodeled factory loft. My books go on the built-in shelves. My clothes in the walk-in closet that's bigger than my entire bedroom at the old place. My toiletries in those empty drawers Tucker cleared for me.
By the time he gets back, I've made significant progress. He finds me in the kitchen, arranging my mismatched mugs in the cabinet.
"You're nesting," he says with a grin.
"I'm unpacking."
"You're nesting. It's cute."
