I Reject Your Reality and Substitute My Own

Robby has to glance over at that. The father-to-be's still pretending to read the chart in front of him. His brows are furrowed, his nose slightly flared with every wrinkled line of his face morphed into performative irritation, but there’s a small lift at the corner of his mouth.

...He's disgustingly pleased.

Robby lets out a slow breath as Jack rambles on. This is what friends do, right?

"Shaving her legs. Putting that oil on her stomach. Lotion on her back. In the afternoon, she woke me up because her feet were dry."

"That's basically an emergency. You say no?"

Jack's brows raise. Robby almost snorts, but he doesn't, cause he's not as suicidal as he once was.

Alright, the suggestion alone is insulting. Sunshine could wake Jack whenever the hell she wanted, and he'd be halfway to doing whatever she asked him to do before she even finished speaking. That's his bad.

"She’s carrying my kid. I’m not gonna let her heels crack open."

Robby finally is brave enough to lock eyes with Jack. He looks tired, the shadows under his eyes are darker than usual, and it's probably because the love of his life now requires assistance rolling out of bed.

And yet...he's so fucking smug about it. He's loving every damn second. Good for him, but why lie about it?

"Most people complain because they don’t want to do something."

"I don't want to. She makes me use too much lotion. It gets everywhere. The sheets, my shirt---"

Robby sets down his tablet.

"You could stop helping."

...He's a little too satisfied to catch Jack's offended snap of his eyes. He sits down in the rolling chair as the guy, again, continues to ramble on. And on. And on.

Only you are deserving of such passion, Sunshine. Jeezus.

"I told you, she can't reach. She shouldn't have to strain."

Robby shrugs. "You could buy her one of those long-handled applicators. It's got a pad on the end. She could do her own back---"

"No. Those things are unsanitary."

Oh brother.

"...M'pretty sure you can wash them...unless the last ten minutes you spent pretending your pregnant girlfriend allowing you to rub her body every morning is some kind of hardship is just that...pretending."

Jack's nose flares. Robby's heart drops. That could've been a little too much for him.

"It isn’t like that. It's for medical purposes. It's good for her circulation when I help her."

He stares at the guy.

You lotioning her ass for circulation, Jack?

...Okay. Robby doesn't know where you're putting the lotion, but knowing you with Sunshine, he's got a pretty good idea.

Jack scratches his neck, rolling his shoulders. "I’m not gonna make her do all that herself, Robby. You're right, maybe I'm just nitpicking. It's not the worst. She sits between my legs. I do the belly first. Then her sides. Lower back if she can stand it."

...Okay. There's the real reason for his "whining". He wants to talk about it. Robby should've guessed that.

Jack wants to talk about it. He wants Robby to picture you nesting yourself between his thighs, round with his baby, lifting your shirt and trusting him to tend to every sensitive inch.

"Glad you got a system for your hardships, Jack. Sounds like an efficient routine."

"You need one. Otherwise, she gets impatient."

Robby nods like he could ever believe this bullshit, blinking slowly.

"Mm. God forbid."

Jack thinks about it in the truck. He doesn't have it in him to admit he's pathetic enough to sit in traffic as he fantasizes about moisturizing you. He just knows what comes next.

You’ll be in bed, probably wearing one of his shirts pulled up over your stomach. You’ve started waiting there for him during his final hour of work, surrounded by pillows, sending increasingly dramatic updates.

your daughter has lodged her foot beneath my rib. bring pudding or don’t come home

He stops for pudding before going home. He locks the door and checks it twice before moving through the house.

"Kid?"

"In here!"

Jack smiles, and by the time he enters the bedroom, his undershirt sleeves are pushed to his forearms, pudding and spoon in one hand.

You’re sitting against the headboard, pink pajama shorts beneath your stomach and one of his old shirts gathered underneath your tits.

Your belly shines softly in the sunlight. You smile at him.

"Hi, Daddy."

Jack stops.

His eyes remain on your stomach. There’s a sheen over it with a lack of the soft dryness that waits for his palms every morning and evening.

You’re already lotioned.

The fuck?

"Oh! My pudding, you're the best!"

You don’t appear to notice the shift in him. You’re too busy reaching for the pudding cup and spoon. He put the rest in the fridge.

He stands beside the bed, waiting. For what, he doesn’t know. Maybe for you to explain yourself. But you just eat your pudding, round and comfortable and glossy without him.

Jack sits on the edge of the mattress, breathing low.

"You already moisturized?"

You lick pudding from the spoon. He swallows.

"Mhm. I was getting itchy---"

"I was coming home. You couldn’t wait?"

Your brows rise, and Jack can't give a shit over how unreasonable he sounds.

"For lotion, Jack? Wait, are you pouting?"