I watch him without hiding it.
He doesn’t look up. He always knows.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m observing,” I reply.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Same thing.”
“Not to me.”
That earns a quiet huff of amusement – restrained, like everything else about him right now.
I move slowly, deliberately. No rushing. No testing my limits. I brush my teeth, wash my face, pull on the clothes he left out. They fit. Of course they do. Nothing pinches. Nothing pulls. My body cooperates like it’s always belonged to me.
That’s the part I don’t trust.
But I don’t flinch. I don’t spiral. I make tea.
He joins me at the small table by the window while the kettle clicks off, the city below us doing its own unremarkable thing. Traffic. Pedestrians. A man arguing into his phone like nothing in the world has shifted.
I pour. He waits.
“You’re letting me do things,” I say quietly.
“I always let you do things,” he replies.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
We drink in silence for a while. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just…there. I feel the steady weight of him across from me, the way his attention never fully leaves the room even when it looks like it has. Guarding without hovering. Present without pressing.
Normal. Or close enough to fake it.
“I don’t want to be wrapped in cotton wool,” I say eventually.
He sets his cup down carefully. “You’re not.”
“Good.”
“I’m not interested in making you smaller,” he continues. “I’m interested in making sure you don’t have to fight every second of the day.”
I consider that. The honesty of it. The restraint.
“Stay,” I say, surprising myself with how easily the word comes.
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He stands, steps closer, stops just inside my space – close enough that I can feel his warmth, not close enough to crowd me.
“I am,” he says.
I lean in first.
It starts the same way – my forehead resting against his chest, breath syncing, my hands flat against him like I’m reminding myself he’s real. Solid. Still here. His body responds immediately, a subtle shift that brings him closer without crowding me. One hand settles warm and steady at my back, fingers splayed like an anchor. The other rests at my nape, light enough to feel like permission rather than restraint.
My body exhales.
The baby shifts, calm and unbothered, like this proximity has been weighed and approved.
