Page 91 of Ruthless Claim

Neither of those things are working as well as they usually do.

I put my feet up while he makes dinner.

It’s good. I eat almost all of it, which is the best I’ve done in two weeks according to Cillian’s face.

“Don’t say it,” I tell him, when I catch him looking at my plate.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says innocently.

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted more,” he says, mildly, and gets up to get it before I can answer.

He’s so completely insufferable.

He’s started opening car doors, which he never used to do, and last week he moved the heavier boxes in my office at the gallery without being asked.

I just came in one morning and they were somewhere better.

One of my colleagues at the gallery asked me how he knew where to put them.

I said he’s thorough.

They nodded like this made complete sense.

He also wakes up when I’m sick, which is every morning.

He follows me to the bathroom and holds my hair back for me.

I’ve told him he doesn’t have to do this.

He’s ignored me every time, and I’ve stopped arguing about it.

But I find I don’t entirely mind the fussing.

I especially don’t mind the foot rubbing that started three days ago, because the moment I acknowledge it he’ll probably stop.

I grew up in a family where love was present but not always expressed in ways you could point to.

My father showed it through providing and my mother showed it through teaching and nobody really just looked after you, in the small daily way.

Cillian is looking after me in that small daily way, and it means a lot to me.

About two weeks after I tell him I’m pregnant, we’re lying in bed. It’s late, the lamp’s off, with the glow of the city through the gap in the curtains.

He’s on his back and I’m on my side facing him.

His hand is resting on my stomach, palm flat against the skin.

He’s been doing this recently, usually when he thinks I’m asleep.

I’ve been pretending I am because I didn’t know what to say and I needed a moment to feel it privately first.

Tonight I don’t pretend.

“Cillian,” I say quietly.

“Hmm?” His voice is low, half-absent.