“And you’re kind of a dork.”
He laughs. “Guilty. I make dad jokes even though I’m not a dad yet. I can’t watch horror movies because I get too invested in the characters. And I definitely cried at the end ofToy Story 3.”
“Everyone cried at the end ofToy Story 3.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I’m a writer. I don’t have feelings, I just observe them in others.”
“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.”
He’s smiling at me, and I can feel the ground start to tilt under my feet.
I should send him home. That’s the smart thing to do. The safe thing. Every time he’s here, every conversation we have that isn’t about the baby, I can feel myself gettingattached. And attachment leads to hope, and hope leads to heartbreak.
But I don’t want him to leave.
The realization hits me hard. I like having him here. I like the way he makes me laugh. The way he listens like what I’m saying actually matters. The way being around him feels easy in a way nothing else in my life does right now.
I’m supposed to be keeping my distance.
Instead, I stand abruptly, grabbing our empty bowls, and hear myself say, “Want to watch something?”
His eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “Sure.”
There’s something in his expression that warms my heart. Like he wasn’t expecting me to ask. Like maybe he thought I’d usher him out the second we finished eating. And maybe I should have. But I don’t.
We migrate to the couch, and I pull up FlixPix, not really caring what I click. I land on some action movie I’ve seen before. Plenty of explosions, zero emotional investment. Perfect.
Jake settles beside me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that if I shifted just slightly, our legs would press together. I don’t shift. But I don’t move away either.
Ten minutes in, I couldn’t tell you what’s happening on the screen. I’m too aware of him. The way his arm rests along the back of the couch. The way he smells, clean and woody. The memory of his hands on my skin, the feel of his mouth on my neck.
It’s just hormones, I tell myself. Pregnancy hormones.Chemistry plus proximity plus everything being heightened right now. That’s all this is.
On screen, something explodes. I barely register it. Jake shifts beside me, his thigh pressing against mine for just a second before he adjusts. The brief contact sends heat racing through me.
This is a bad idea. Letting him stay. Sitting this close. Pretending I can keep things casual when every cell in my body is screaming at me to close the distance. I should ask him to leave.
Instead, I let my head tip back against the couch, exhaustion pulling at me. The combination of pregnancy fatigue and the emotional whiplash of the last few weeks is catching up. My eyelids feel heavy.
“Tired?” Jake asks quietly.
“A little.”
“We can turn this off if you want to sleep.”
“No, it’s okay. Just resting my eyes.”
But the next thing I know, I’m waking up to darkness. The TV has gone into screensaver mode, casting flickering light across the room. And I’m not where I fell asleep.
I’m curled into Jake’s side, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me. Our legs are tangled together, and one of my hands is resting on his stomach, fingers spread over the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Slow and strong and impossibly comforting. I should move. Pull away. Put space between us before this becomes something I can’t take back. But God, he’s warm. And he smells so good. And I can’t remember the last time I felt this safe.
