“Tucker.” I smile and gesture at my baby-mama. “And Sloane here is uncomfortable but terrified of looking dumpy.”
Sloane bites her lip and Kamila smiles. She gathers options for Sloane in a whirlwind—filling a cart with leggings and stretchy tanks I can’t wait to peel off later.
"Those are nice," she admits grudgingly.
"Right? And look—no bows."
She takes them from Kamila, feeling the fabric. "Okay, these are actually really soft."
"And they have pockets,” our shopper adds.
Sloane’s eyes light up. "Pockets?"
"Pockets," I confirm, showing her. "Deep ones."
"I'm trying these on."
I settle onto the bench outside the fitting rooms while Sloane disappears inside.
"She's lucky to have you," Kamila says, organizing the clothes on the rack. "A lot of men won't even come to the maternity section, but I know you Stag men are made different.”
"I like shopping with her." It's true. I like watching Sloane make decisions, like seeing what catches her eye, like being part of these small moments.
"Well, she's lucky anyway." Kamila heads back to the floor, leaving me alone with my phone.
I scroll through messages—Alder asking about dinner later this week, my mom sending photos of baby shoes she found, Mayhem sharing a ridiculous meme. Everyday life, carrying on.
The fitting room door opens. Sloane steps out wearing the dark jeans I picked, paired with a soft burgundy top that drapes over her belly without clinging.
I forget how to breathe.
"These actually fit," she says, turning to check her reflection. "Like, really fit. They're comfortable."
"You look incredible."
She glances at me, and something in my expression makes her blush. She toys with the sun locket at her throat. “It's just jeans and a shirt."
"It's you." I stand, moving closer. "You look beautiful. Happy."
"I am happy." She says it like she's surprised. "These pants don't dig into my sides. That makes me very happy."
"Good." I kiss her forehead. "Try on more things. I want to see everything."
Over the next twenty minutes, Sloane models outfit after outfit. The leggings with pockets make her squeal. A soft gray dress makes her look ethereal. She declares the joggers "life-changing." A denim jacket fits over her belly.
With each outfit, she relaxes a little more, and my own pants grow a little tighter. Smiles come easier. She even does a little spin in one particularly flattering dress, laughing when she nearly loses her balance.
"Okay," she finally says, emerging in her original clothes with an armful of selections. "I'm getting tired.”
“Then we should head home,” I tell her, adjusting myself as I stand. At the register, I pull out my credit card before she can reach for hers.
"Tucker—"
"My treat. For putting up with my nagging you to come shopping." I hand the card to Kamila before Sloane can argue. "Besides, I like buying you things."
"That's not—" She stops, takes a breath. "Thank you. I'll pay you back?—"
"You absolutely will not." I take the bags from Kamila and steer Sloane toward the exit. "You're growing my children. The least I can do is buy you pants."
