I clear my throat. Because apparently that’s what I do now when feelings try to unionise.
“So,” I say lightly, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near controlled detonation, “what happened to the rugby-playing jetsetter who swanned about the world being cocky and allergic to commitment?”
He huffs out a laugh, eyes still on the telly where someone is sanding something unnecessarily. “Ah. Him.”
“Yes. Him,” I say. “The man who treated long-term plans like a suspicious rash.”
He exhales, slow, eyes still on the telly like the answer might be hidden behind a man arguing about grout.
“I was already stepping off,” he says. “You know that.”
I nod. My gaze stays on the screen, but my attention is fully on him.
“I’d started saying no,” he adds. “Quietly. Less running. Less booking things just because I could.”
He rubs a hand over his face, half-smile, half-resignation. “My body helped underline the point.”
I snort. “Your dick filed a formal complaint.”
“Immediate strike action,” he says. “Very clear feedback.”
I laugh, because that part is familiar and safe.
“And then Pea-Lime,” he says, more softly, careful with the word like it matters, “made it obvious I wasn’t wrong to slow down.”
My chest tightens, warm and inconvenient.
“She’s not here yet,” he continues, “but she’s already part of the picture. And so are you. That didn’t start with her.”
There it is. Quiet. Unshowy. Completely unfair.
I tell myself the sudden rush of feeling is hormones. Pregnancy is basically one long science experiment and I am the lab rat. That’s the only explanation. Definitely not the man beside me calmly including me in his future like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“So, whatever comes next,” he says, finally looking at me, “it gets run past you. Both of you. That’s just how I think now.”
“That’s,” I say, aiming for breezy and missing, “a lot of consideration.”
He shrugs. “Feels basic.”
My heart does something unprofessional.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He smiles. “Don’t what?”
“Be sensible and kind in the same breath,” I say. “It’s deeply unfair when talking to a hormonal pregnant lady.”
He laughs, proper and warm, then leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead. Quick. Easy. Like it’s muscle memory.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll try to be more inconsiderate.”
“Too late,” I reply. “Damage done.”
He pulls back, eyes flicking to my face. “Do you want some of that fruit salad I made earlier? It’s still in the fridge.”
I pull a face immediately. “I want to want fruit salad.”
“That’s not a yes.”
