I turn to look at him, and his expression is patient but firm, the same look he gives me when I try to carry too much firewood or insist on shoveling the path myself.
"Okay, okay," I concede, moving toward the couch. "But only because you asked nicely."
He shakes his head, smiling, and I settle onto the couch with a sigh of relief I don't want to admit he was right about. My back has been aching all afternoon, and sitting feels better than I expected. I watch him move around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients.
"Do you remember the first time you cooked for me?" I ask, resting my head against the back of the couch.
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "You mean the night you showed up uninvited and refused to leave?"
"I had a reservation."
He huffs a quiet laugh, and I see the corner of his mouth lift. "Yeah. I remember."
"You made chicken. With lemon butter."
"And you told me it was 'just chicken.'"
"You said it was just chicken. I said it was fancy."
"You were right."
I grin, pulling the blanket over my lap. "I usually am."
He doesn't argue, just shakes his head and goes back to chopping vegetables. The sound of the knife against the board is rhythmic and soothing, and I let myself just watch him for a moment.
"Happy Valentine's Day, by the way," I say, and he pauses, looking up at me with something soft in his expression.
"Yeah. You too."
"I still can't believe you almost slept on this terrible couch," I tease.
"I offered. You refused."
"Because you would've been miserable."
He sets the knife down and crosses to the couch, sitting beside me and pulling my legs into his lap. His hands are warm as they settle on my calves, and I sigh at the contact.
I feel the baby shift inside me, a small, insistent flutter that makes me press my free hand to my stomach.
Joseph notices immediately. "Again?"
"Yeah. Active today."
His hand moves to join mine, pressing gently against the curve of my belly, and we wait. After a moment, there's another flutter, and I see his expression soften.
"Strong," he murmurs.
"Takes after you."
"Let's hope not. I was a pain in the ass as a kid."
I laugh. "I'm sure you were perfectly well-behaved."
"Ask my mother sometime."
"I will."
He smiles, and his thumb strokes absently across my stomach. "Do you think we're ready?" he asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question, something that reminds me of the man who once pulled away from a kiss because he was too afraid to let himself want it.
