"Abby," he says, his voice taking on a lilting tone. "You're ogling me."
"I am not," I snap, crossing my arms across my chest. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Okay, sure," he says, grinning wickedly. "I forgot that the quickest way to heal a shoulder is to stare at it like it's the first meal you've had in weeks."
"You're being ridiculous," I scoff, furious at the heat in my cheeks undermining my protests.
He rotates his shoulder a few more times before stretching both arms above his head. When he does, the hem of his t-shirt lifts, revealing a few inches of skin above his waistband. Even from that tiny sliver I can see the evidence of impressive abs, and a muscular V shape that dips below his waistline, answering my question. Apparently the rest of himisthat solid.
Again I say—Jesus Christ.
"You're doing it again," he hums, smoothing the front of his shirt down and retrieving the instructions from the couch.
"Shut up," I grumble, cheeks burning even more furiously.
I know he did that shit on purpose.
Desperate to gain some control of this situation, I throw out a cheap shot.
"At least I didn't walk in on you naked," I say, feeling incredibly smug when he chokes on absolutely nothing. "I mean, if we're going to talk about staring problems—"
"Alright, alright," he yells, raising his hands in surrender. "We can just call it even. Can I build you a crib now?"
"Well I'd hardly call it even," I say, relishing in my victory. "But I suppose it'll do. Now make sure Little One has somewhere to sleep."
After scouring the internet, we finally find a Reddit thread with grainy photos of the instruction manual in English. I sitcross-legged on the couch, trying to zoom in on the four pixels available to us, calling out instructions as I decipher them. I watch him work—not ogle,watch—as the indistinguishable piles of wood transform into the most perfect crib I've ever seen.
"That should do it," he grunts, tightening the last bolt and giving it a good shake. "What do you think, mom?"
"I think it's perfect," I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. I know I'm having a baby—doctor appointments, ultrasound photos, and a dozen pair of jeans that no longer fit me are proof of that. But something about seeing the crib, knowing it won't be empty for long, makes this feel infinitely more real.
"Thank you Jack," I say tearfully, wrapping my arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. "I love it."
"You got it, pretty girl," he says softly, his hands gently rubbing my arms before interlocking his arms behind my shoulders. "I'm glad it's what you wanted."
"You still shouldn't have done it," I grumble, poking him in the ribs. "You've already given us so much."
"All I've given you is a secondhand baby mobile," he argues. "I feel like I've actually shown a lot of restraint, thank you very much."
I chuckle, stepping out of his hold to run my hands along the grain of the mahogany banister. Before long, my sweet baby girl will lay on this mattress, watching that secondhand mobile twirling above her.
I want to argue with him. How do I even begin to explain it? The things he's given me aren't measurable, or tangible, but they're worth more than a thousand mahogany cribs. He's given me space to grieve, but also a place to make sure I'm not doing it alone. He's given his time, his care, his attention. It feels like he's given mehimself, slowly, piece-by-piece, from the first day I told him about Little One. It's the most wonderful thing anyone could possibly give me.
So why do I feel scared to death?
The beginnings of panic start to rise in my chest, my hand involuntarily fluttering to my collarbone, fiddling anxiously with my necklace.
Should he be doing that? Should I be letting him? Should we stop…whatever this is? Before it's gone too far? What even is this? What do you call it when your husband dies and your best friend moves in to take care of you while you deal with being both a widow and a mom?
I don't know. Everything in my life has been uncharted territory for months, and it's been scary, and overwhelming, but this has always been a good thing. Jack has always been a good thing.
You're freaking out over nothing. Calm down.
"I'm going to go clean up," he says, patting me on the shoulder before exiting the room.
All Jack Robb does is give. To his family, his friends, at the station, and to me, most of all. He never complains, he never gets angry, he never asks for anything in return. A person can only keep that up for so long.
What happens when he has nothing left to give? What happens when he wakes up one day and realizes he's empty?
