Dad! Price + pregnant! reader
John Price wasnāt a man prone to sentiment. But lately, heād caught his son watching him with that quiet, studious expression that five year olds wore when they were trying to understand something big.
It started small. A look, a tilt of the head when John helped you ease onto the couch, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows just right. Then came the little imitationsāa small hand pressed to your knee when you sighed, a too-big glass of water pushed into your hands before you even asked for it.
Yeah. The boy was watching.
John saw it in the way his son trailed after him, his steps careful and deliberate, like he was trying to map out the rhythm of care he has always provided for you.
He didnāt just follow orders; he anticipated. When John pulled out a chair for you, the boy did the same at breakfast the next morning, brows drawn in concentration as he dragged the heavy thing across the floor. When John pressed a hand to your lower back in passing, the kid reached up later, tiny palm resting there for half a second before scampering off, satisfied with a smile that he made his mother feel comfortable.
And when you winced one evening, shifting uncomfortably, it was your son who slipped off the couch without a word, returning a minute later with one of your small heating pads from the bathroom. He set it down beside you, nudging it toward your hand before looking up expectantly.
John, sitting across from you, just huffed a quiet laugh.
He didnāt tell him to do any of this. Didnāt have to.
The kid was simply learning straight from him. Picking up on the way his father moved around his mother, how he noticed things before you had to say them, how care wasnāt in grand gestures but in the easy, natural rhythm of love.
John caught his sonās eye, tilting his head just slightly. The boy straightened a little, waiting.
Good lad, he thought, with a small nod of approval.
He was going to turn out just fine.
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