Trey settles beside me, stretched out across the bed on his stomach. He’s only in his boxers, the lines of his body relaxed, his tattoos shifting subtly with each movement as he turns the page of a pregnancy magazine like it might contain classified intelligence.
I watch him for a moment too long.
He looks completely absorbed. Mildly offended. Deeply invested.
His brows are drawn tight as he studies whatever he’s reading.
Then he glances over his shoulder at me.
“Baby,” he says, low and serious, like he’s trying not to alarm me. “I don’t think you should fucking read this. It’s…” He hesitates, clearly searching for the right word. “It’s fucking scary.”
My lips part slightly.
He turns another page, shaking his head in disbelief. “And they keep referring to the baby as fruit. What the fuck is that about, baby? I’m never going to look at fruit the same way again.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
I shift onto my stomach beside him, close enough now that my shoulder brushes his as I peer over to see what’s captured his attention so completely. The magazine is open to a section on early pregnancy—weeks eight to nine, small diagrams and reassuring headings about development and symptoms.
It still doesn’t feel real when I read it.
Not until I look at him.
My fingers trace absent patterns across one of his tattoos as I settle in, my voice lighter but threaded with something warmer.
“You’re offended by fruit?” I murmur.
His grip tightens slightly on the magazine like it’s personally insulted him.
“I’m offended by all of this,” he mutters, then exhales through his nose. “But especially the fruit thing.” His eyes flick to mine. “When the baby is ready to come out,” he reads, then goes noticeably pale, “it’s going to be the size of a watermelon. What. The. Fucking. Shit. Baby, you can’t take a watermelon, right? Do we need to practice? Does it have to be fresh? What if its frozen, it would be tougher, right? No, no, you would get freezer burn…fuck, baby.”
My eyes widen at the image he’s just dropped into my mind, and I instinctively close my legs.
Trey stares at my stomach for a beat, before shaking himself out of it.
“But your pussy is so fucking tight. It’s going to…you can’t…how—”
He cuts off abruptly when he sees my face, then forces a quick, unconvincing smile.
“It’s going to be like watching my favorite cupcake get backed over by a truck...but… you,we, got this.”
He looks back down.
“Okay, maybe I fucking don’t,” he mutters under his breath. “But you know I did the hard work. All that thrusting, sewing seeds, way better than barley.”
I snatch the magazine from his hands and fling it across the room. It misses the box entirely.
“Trey,” I hiss, pushing up slightly, “you’re not allowed to spiral on me right now. You’re not allowed to freak me out!”
I slap his chest for emphasis.
He blinks once, like he’s trying to reset his entire thought process.
“Right. Right, okay.” He drags in a breath, nodding seriously. “Well, I mean…right now it’s more than likely the size of a cherry? I thought rice. Rice is fine. You can take rice.”
“Trey… I am not going to be putting anything in my… in my—”
I pause, then force myself to meet his eyes dead-on.
