#billiexreader

masterlist prompt list

synopsis: you and billie’s journey of ivf, from the first hints of billie wanting a kid, to birth.

warnings: smut (at the start, and about halfway thru), strap r!receiving, fingering r!receiving, pregnancy, lots of fluff, ivf, needles, hospitals, fertility issues, angst at points.

w.c: 19.7k

12th January, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles. 11:22pm. 

The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the city leaking through the slightly cracked window. It’s late, the light outside golden and lazy. You and Billie are in the bedroom, the soft cotton sheets tangled around your legs, the air still warm from her body pressed against yours. You feel her breath, steady and slow, warm against the side of your neck.

Billie’s fingers trace lazy circles on your hip, nails barely grazing your skin. The mood is calm but electric, you can tell what shes thinking, what she wants, what’s coming. You catch her eyes in the mirror across the room, those deep blue eyes framed by thick lashes, intense, playful, and a little wild. She gives you that small smile, the one that melts your chest and makes your heart speed up.

Without a word, Billie shifts, climbing on top of you with a fluid grace that’s almost hypnotic. Her touch becomes firmer, and her eyes search yours, asking for permission without needing to say it. You nod, breath catching, feeling your pulse flicker at the slow deliberate way she pulls the waistband of your underwear down, exposing your bare skin to her hands.

Her hands explore like they’ve memorized every inch of you, mapping out every curve and hollow. Her lips brush against your collarbone, warm and soft, sending a shiver down your spine. You close your eyes, focusing on the sensation, the way her tongue flicks teasingly against the sensitive skin there.

“What do you want?” Billie murmurs against your neck, words humming against your skin

You roll into her touch, hands splaying across her back and at her shirt, helping it off as you speak slowly and a little tired, “Strap please.”

She reaches for the strap, the harness smooth and worn. When she secures it around her hips, you watch the way her body flexes, the way her muscles tighten in anticipation. Her hands slide down your sides, gripping your thighs lightly, steadying herself.

The first slow push in is a whisper of pressure, a deep and stretching sensation that pulls a low, breathy moan from your throat. Your wetness pools around the strap and billie’s hips move with deliberate care, slow and sure, matching the rhythm of your breathing. Her eyes never leave yours, locked in a quiet conversation, full of raw desire. 

You feel Billie’s chest press to yours, her breath warm against your skin as she leans down, lips brushing your ear. “I want to give you a baby,” she murmurs, voice husky and low, almost shy in its intensity. “Gonna fill you up.” Her words float through the room, fragile and fierce all at once.

You snort softly, a little laugh breaking free despite the tight coil of sensation winding inside you. That’s impossible, you think, but she sounds so sure it doesn’t even matter.

Her hips press deeper, slow and steady, every movement a promise, a claim. The heat between your bodies rises, slow-burning and thick. Her hands tighten on your thighs, nails tracing faint scratches that sting deliciously against your skin. She leans forward, lips brushing your cheek, then down to your collarbone again, lips parted in soft sighs.

“I’m gonna cum in you,” she repeats, voice cracking, rougher. “Gonna give you a baby.”

Your breath hitches. Her body trembles slightly, a shudder running through her as she rides the edge, her control slipping, hands gripping your sides tighter. The strap shifts against you, hitting your sweet spot and you groan out, “Fuck bills harder”

You reach up, tangling your fingers in her hair, pulling her close. Your lips find hers, slow and deep, a wet dance of tongue and breath. Her moans press against your mouth, her hands sliding lower, stroking you through your skin, delicate and fierce at the same time.

She says it again, “I’m gonna cum in you angel, gonna give you a fucking baby” and you almost laugh again, holding it back, letting it fall out as a moan

The room becomes fuzzy, narrowing to just the rise and fall of your chests, the slick wet heat between your thighs, the faint, desperate sounds Billie makes as she edges closer and closer. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, and then she gasps soft and broken.

“I love you,” she whispers against your lips.

You answer her with a shaky breath, voice rough. “I love you too.”

Your pussy clenches around the strap, a slow, rolling wave of pleasure that pulls you both over the edge. Nails scraping at Billie’s back, teeth digging into her collarbone. Your hands hold her tight, your heart pounding against your ribs as your own pleasure crashes over you, slow and deep and aching. You gasp her name, your body shuddering with the force of it.

“Gonna fill you up,” Billie says again, voice strained as she cums. Her body shivers against your teeth as she cums, words stretching out into long moans, suddenly her body falling against you.

Her lips find yours once more, soft and hungry, full of promise and love and something sacred. “I love you,” she breathes.

“I love you,” you whisper back, eyes closed, your bodies tangled in the afterglow. Warm, spent, connected.

The last echoes of your shared breath still hang between you, slow and ragged, as the heat of the moment melts into something softer, more fragile. Billie’s hands, slick with both your sweat and cum, work methodically now, unclasping the strap from her hips. The faint click of the buckle sounds unusually loud in the quiet bedroom. Billie moves toward the dresser, bare skin glowing faintly in the low light, the room cloaked in the heavy darkness of night, shadows pooling around her.

You watch her from the bed, still tangled in sheets, sweat cooling on your skin. Her back is to you, the curve of her spine delicate and tense under the weight of unspoken things. She pulls open the drawer slowly, sliding the strap inside and closing it with quiet finality. In these few seconds, when you can’t see her face and everything feels less exposed, you find the courage to speak. 

“Did you really mean it?” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, the words floating hesitantly between you. “About… the baby.”

Billie pauses, frozen mid-motion, and then slowly turns on her heel. The dim light catches her eyes, wide and vulnerable, eyes you rarely get to see. Her mouth opens slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out. Instead, she simply nods. No anger. No confusion. Just a quiet, fragile admission.

You pat the bed beside you, inviting her to come closer. She slides back over with a slow grace, draping a soft, oversized shirt over your shoulders. You pull it on carefully, the fabric cool and comforting against your skin.

She sits beside you, fingers curling around your wrist, her palm open for you to trace. Your touch is gentle, deliberate, steady. “You mean it,” you say softly, your voice warm, grounding.

Billie breathes out, a shaky laugh escaping her lips. “I’ve always wanted kids,” she admits, voice low, almost scared. “It’s just… I never thought it would be like this.”

You squeeze her hand, your eyes searching hers. “It’s scary. But I want it too. We’ll do it together.”

Her gaze flickers, a range of emotion passing through her: hope, fear, excitement. You see her shoulders relax a fraction. “You would? You’d try?”

You nod, heart full, voice steady. “I would. And if it doesn’t work, we have each other. That’s what matters.”

Suddenly, her usual post sex tiredness disappears, replaced by a bright, almost giddy grin. “Really? Like, really really?”

You chuckle softly, warmth blooming through your chest. “Yeah. Really.”

Billie’s eyes sparkle as she leans closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “So… how do we even start?”

You take a breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle comfortably around you. “We’ll see the doctor. IVF, probably. I’d carry.”

Her smile grows, radiant and full of life, lighting up the dark room. Her excitement brushes over all her features.  Her smile is wide. Her dimples are clear. Cheeks bunched up and reddening. Her eyebrows are knitted, trembling slightly. The point of her nose is twitching. You’ve only seen her this excited a few times, award shows, birthdays, when you first dated, festivals, rarely in moments like this, tucked up in bed leant against eachother. 

“Okay,” Billie whispers, voice shaking with hope. “Okay.”

You reach over, fingers brushing the smooth glass of the water bottle on the bedside table, the condensation cool against your palm. The quiet clink of the bottle opening cuts softly through the stillness. As you take a slow sip, your eyes catch the sudden glow from Billie’s lap. You let out a choked laugh of surprise, echoing into the open bottle. She’s already pulled out her laptop, fingers poised over the keyboard with a focus that surprises you.

At first, her screen fills with pages for IVF clinics, names, reviews, locations, success rates. The quiet clicking of the keys becomes almost rythmic. But then she shifts, the page changing fluidly, now to baby clothes, tiny booties in soft pastels and muted earth tones, knitted hats, little onesies folded neatly in catalog photos. Your chest tightens at the sweetness, but you know she’s getting ahead of herself. You watch tentatively, leant up on your elbow, letting her bathe in the excitement and the possibility. 

She pulls up prices next, treatment costs, medications, consultations, numbers and percentages scrolling like a silent ticker. Then, almost without pause, the screen flips again: a glimpse of her savings account balance. It’s a quiet moment, the digital numbers stark against the soft glow of the screen. Her brows knit briefly. 

And then the tour schedule. Dates and cities bleeding together on a calendar filled with color-coded notes and reminders, flights booked months in advance, sound checks, interviews. You see her lips purse just slightly, a trace of worry flickering in her eyes as she compares those dates against possible treatment windows.

Your hand slides softly to her arm, “Bills,” you say softly, voice thick with sleep and tenderness, “angel, these things take time, first of all. And also, it might not work the first time, yeah? Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Billie looks up, eyes still bright but suddenly more grounded. Her nod is slow, deliberate, the weight of your words settling between you.

“And I’m absolutely wrecked” you add, voice low, tired.

She leans back against the pillows behind her, a small, understanding smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Yeah,” she says quietly, “I know. Me too”

But the fire isn’t quite out yet. Her fingers tap lightly on the keyboard, pulling up ideas, possibilities, plans swirling between hope and fantasy. She talks quietly, words tumbling out like a soft stream. Names of doctors she’s heard about, articles she’s read, little things she thought would be sweet. 

You don’t say much, letting your head rest gently against her chest, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat lulling you closer to sleep. Her voice softens as she talks, slower now, and you trace slow circles on her skin, feeling the warmth of her body beneath your fingertips. The tension in your limbs dissolves, eyelids heavy, the world narrowing to the sound of her breath and the weight of her hand resting on your back. You drift, caught between dreams and waking, as she continues to speak quietly. 

30th January, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles. 9am. 

Weeks later, the quiet morning light slips through the blinds as you sit on the edge of the bed, tying your shoes. The worn laces press against your fingers, a little rhythm to the nervousness knotting your stomach. Billie’s bare feet pad softly behind you on the hardwood floor. Her fingertips graze down your spine in a familiar, calming motion, slow and deliberate.

She leans close, voice low and steady. “You okay?”

You glance up at her reflection in the mirror across the room, catching the way her eyes search yours, calm but bright with that steady confidence she always has when she’s trying to be the anchor. “Yeah. I think so,” you say, voice quieter than you mean.

Billie smiles, that small, knowing smile that reaches her eyes and softens her whole face. “It’s gonna be fine.”

The air feels a little colder now, the weight of the moment settling in. But Billie’s hand finds yours, fingers weaving between yours, holding tight.

30th January, Beverly Hills fertility institute, Los Angeles, 9:30am. 

At the clinic, the hallways stretch ahead, bright, clinical, the floors gleaming under fluorescent lights. It smells sharp, sterile; the antiseptic smell biting at your nose, reminding you this is real.

Billie walks beside you, hand never leaving yours. “You ready?” she asks gently.

You nod, throat tight but voice steady, repeating what Billie had said earlier. “Yeah. It’s gonna be fine” 

In the waiting room, the silence is thick, punctuated only by the soft tapping of a clock and occasional murmurs from other patients. Your name is called, and a nurse with a kind smile leads you to a small exam room.

“You’ll have some blood drawn first,” she explains, pulling out a syringe. “Try to relax, okay?”

Your pulse picks up at the sight of the needle. Billie squeezes your hand, voice soft in your ear. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

The prick stings more than you expected, your body tensing instinctively.

“Almost done,” the nurse says, removing the needle and applying a small bandage.

Billie brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “You did so good.”

Later, you lie back on the examination table, the cold gel spreading across your lower belly as the ultrasound probe presses gently against your skin. The doctor’s calm voice narrates the images on the screen, reassuring but businesslike.

“You have a good baseline,” she says. “We’ll begin hormone injections tomorrow to stimulate your follicles. You’ll have regular monitoring.”

Billie’s thumb traces light patterns on your wrist. “See. Exciting”

12th February, Beverly Hills fertility institute, Los Angeles, 1:22pm. 

Over the next several weeks, the rhythm settles into your days. Early mornings with hormone injections, evenings tangled up together on the couch while your body responds. 

Then comes the day for egg retrieval.

The clinic’s hallways feel colder now, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the sterile walls. Billie stays close, her presence a calm steady pulse next to your own.

“I’m here” she murmurs as you enter the procedure room.

You settle onto the table, paper crinkling beneath you. The doctor walks through the process one last time.

“You’ll be sedated. We use ultrasound guidance to retrieve the eggs. The procedure takes about 30 minutes.”

A nurse inserts the IV line. The sedation washes over you quickly, pulling you into a soft darkness.

When you wake, Billie’s hand is there, brushing back your hair, her eyes bright with relief. “You did so well,” she whispers.

17th February, Beverly Hills fertility institute, Los Angeles, 10:12am. 

Back in the clinic, you lie on the table, legs propped, heart racing.

“The sperm will be gently inserted through a catheter,” the nurse says, her tone calm, practiced, almost soothing in its steadiness. “You’ll likely just feel a little pressure. It’s very quick.”

You nod, the paper crinkling under your back as you shift slightly on the table. The stirrups are cold against your calves, your feet bare and slightly clammy with nerves. Billie’s standing just to your left, her hoodie sleeves shoved up to her elbows, one hand gently curled around your wrist. She’s watching your face, not the nurse, eyes searching.

“You okay?” she murmurs. Her thumb’s brushing slow and steady across the inside of your wrist, soft strokes like she’s trying to imprint calm directly into your bloodstream.

“I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is thinner than you’d like. You force a little breath out through your nose. “Just weird, you know? Being so… aware of your own body like this.”

Billie huffs softly, leaning over to kiss your temple. “Your body’s doing something amazing. I know it’s scary. But you’re doing so good, baby.”

There’s a rustle of gloves and packaging, and the nurse moves closer with quiet efficiency. The doctor enters then, greets you both with a nod, and glances briefly at the chart.

“We’re going to start in a moment,” she says gently. “You’ll feel the speculum, just like during a regular pelvic exam. I’ll walk you through every step.”

You nod again, swallowing around the knot that’s risen in your throat. Billie doesn’t let go of you. Not for a second.

When the speculum slides in, your body tenses out of instinct. It’s not pain exactly, its more the strangeness, the clinical chill of it. Billie’s hand tightens around yours the second she feels your fingers flinch.

“I’m right here,” she says under her breath. “You’re safe. Breathe, yeah?”

You do. Slowly, trying to let your shoulders drop even as your legs stay awkwardly hoisted. The bright light overhead feels too harsh, your skin too exposed. You stare at the ceiling tiles and Billie’s knuckles instead.

There’s a pause, a small shift in sensation, and then, 

“Okay,” the doctor says, voice as calm as ever. “We’re inserting the catheter now. You might feel a bit of pressure, but it shouldn’t be painful.”

You suck in a breath as something narrow threads its way through your cervix, it’s uncomfortable, strange, more mental than physical, but Billie’s hand is still right there, warm and steady. You glance at her face, and she gives you the smallest smile, eyes glossy, like she’s holding something in. Like she knows how big this is but also knows she needs to stay still for you, be calm. 

“Doing great,” the nurse murmurs softly. “Almost done.”

You blink at the ceiling. Your breath comes slow, a little shallow, your free hand twisting in the fabric of your gown near your stomach. The whole thing feels oddly suspended in time, this strange, surreal moment where the quiet hum of a nearby monitor and the rustle of Billie’s jacket sleeve is somehow louder than everything else.

The doctor’s voice cuts through gently. “And… we’re done. Embryo is in. Catheter’s coming out.”

It’s over before your brain’s fully caught up. You feel the subtle shift as the instruments are removed, and the sudden emptiness of your body, like a sigh from deep inside you.

“You did amazing,” Billie whispers, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. Her hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing at the edge of your temple. “So fucking proud of you.”

Your body’s still tense, but the wave of relief makes your muscles ache with how long you’ve been holding it all in.

The nurse adjusts your blanket, and the doctor’s voice is calm as she steps back. “You’ll need to lie flat for about fifteen minutes. Just rest. Then we’ll walk you through next steps, medications, bloodwork dates, follow up scans.”

Billie stays close. Doesn’t sit, doesn’t move. She just hovers at the edge of your bed, both hands holding your face like you might float away otherwise.

You exhale shakily, feeling the weight of it all finally settle in. “That felt like… more than I expected. Not painful, just…”

“I know,” Billie says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, slow and lingering.

You shift slightly under the blanket, the paper beneath you rustling again. There’s a dull ache in your abdomen, like the suggestion of a cramp that might come later, but mostly it’s just the strange, slow thrum of your own heartbeat that you notice.

You let your eyes fall closed. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Billie helps you walk to the car, whilst rambling about baby names, how good you were, how well this is going. You nod, head held low, sleepy, sighing at the odd thing Billie says, humming in approval at others. 

The tires hum against the road like a lullaby that doesn’t work. You’re slumped low in the passenger seat, sweatshirt sleeves tugged down over your hands, your fingers tucked into the cuffs like you’re cold. Even though you’re not. Billie’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other animated in the air as she talks. Still talking. Still full of that buzzed, forward tilted excitement.

“And I looked at this clinic in Pasadena too, just in case, like, a backup option and they do this package where you get three tries and it’s cheaper per round if…”

You stare out the window. The sun’s too bright. The glass has fingerprints on it. Everything feels just a little off, a little too real, too clear. You press your forehead against the window for a second, cool glass anchoring you, and then lift your head again.

Billie doesn’t notice the shift in you, not yet.

“…and I saw a post where someone used the same donor bank and the kid was born with, like, the cutest fucking dimples, and I was like, babe, imagine a baby with your nose and dimples…”

You inhale sharply and cut in before you really mean to. “Can you just stop?”

Billie glances at you like she’s misheard. “What?”

“I…” You blink, swallow hard. “Just… can we not talk about it right now?”

Her brow furrows, the tiniest downward twitch. “Wait what’s wrong?”

You sit with it. Your jaw tight. Shoulders stiff. You feel raw, like your nerves are still outside your skin from that table, those stirrups, the bright light above you. The way they said “Now just a little pressure”and then shoved something inside you while Billie was gripping your hand with both of hers like she thought it was fine. Like you were both having the same experience.

“I didn’t like it,” you say, flat.

Billie’s eyes flick over to you again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I didn’t fucking like it, Billie.” You’re shocked by your own tone. The sharpness. You almost never raise your voice like that, especially not at her.

She slows the car slightly, turns down the music without even thinking. Her voice is quiet. “I thought. I thought you were okay.”

You shake your head, throat dry. “You were so excited. I didn’t wanna ruin it for you.”

There’s a pause, thick and warm in the car, like the engine heat’s pressing in through the vents. Billie glances down at the road, then back to you. “Babe. That was a big thing. They went in there. Like, for real. And you…why didn’t you say something?”

You exhale through your nose, eyes stinging. “Because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t expect to feel like that. I thought I’d be… I don’t know, happy. Or, like, overwhelmed in the good way. Not like that.” You break off.

“Like what?”

You press your fingers to your temple. “Like I wasn’t even in the room for half of it. Like I was just this, this body they were poking at. Like I was lying there with my legs open and people were talking over me like I wasn’t even there.”

Billie’s lips press into a line. “Fuck.” She’s whispering now. “I didn’t think. I mean, I held your hand the whole time.”

“I know,” you snap, then wince. “Sorry. I know. I know you were trying. It’s not you. I just. ” Your breath hitches. “I didn’t expect it to be like that.”

Billie’s already pulling into the driveway. You hadn’t realized how close to home you were. She throws the car in park but doesn’t move to turn it off yet. You cover your face with both hands and let out this broken little half-sob, half-laugh sound that catches you both off guard.

“I don’t even know why I’m being like this,” you mumble, voice muffled. “How the fuck am I gonna survive the actual pregnancy if this is how I’m reacting now?”

There’s silence.

Then Billie giggles. Genuinely giggles. “Oh, baby…”

You peek out from between your fingers.

“I was just thinking that.” She leans over the center console to pull your hands down gently, thumbing over your knuckles. “Like. Hormones. Mood swings. Me doing everything wrong. You sobbing over commercials and dog videos.”

You let out a breath that turns into a laugh. It bubbles up weird and unexpected. You’re still crying a little. But it’s that stupid tired laugh you get when your emotions are all tangled together and you’re wrung out and all you can do is laugh or scream.

“Can you imagine me trying to get dressed in the third trimester?” you sniffle. “I’ll be crying because my socks don’t match.”

Billie smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. Her hand squeezes yours. “You’ll be beautiful. I’ll match your socks for you. You won’t lift a fucking finger.”

You wipe your cheeks with the sleeve of your hoodie, looking at her through bleary eyes. “I’m sorry I snapped.”

“You didn’t snap,” Billie says gently. “You’re just… you’re overwhelmed. And I should’ve noticed.”

You nod slowly. “It’s not that I don’t want this. I do. I really do.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “We just… we’ll go slower, okay? We’ll talk more. You tell me when it’s too much. I won’t bulldoze it with my excitement.”

You’re both still sitting in the car, engine off now, heat fading slowly into the silence. The afternoon is bright outside the windshield, but everything inside feels quieter. Still. Billie’s thumb is still moving in soft circles over the back of your hand.

You take a deep breath, grounding yourself. “Can we just lie down for a while?”

She nods. “Absolutely.”

And she opens her door, loops around to yours, holds out her hand to help you out. And you take it.

23rd February, You and Billie’s home, Los Angeles, 5:10pm. 

It’s raining outside, barely. That weird LA drizzle that doesn’t even hit the ground, just hangs in the air like static. The bedroom’s dim, gray light pushing in through the sheer curtains. The duvet is twisted around the bed. Billie’s in one of your sweatshirts again, the sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms, her hair messy. You’re both sitting on the edge of the bed, socked feet pressed flat to the hardwood, barely breathing.

The test is sitting on the dresser.

Neither of you have touched it yet. You’re five minutes in. You set a timer. Just to have something keeping track. Something that isn’t your thudding pulse or the nauseating hope tangling in your chest.

Billie bounces her knee restlessly, hand half-covering her mouth, eyes flicking from the test to your face, then back again. Your hand shakes slightly against the duvet. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “I’ve been feeling weird.”

“Weird how?” Billie’s voice is soft, but eager. Her knee keeps going. Up, down, up, down.

You shrug, stomach fluttering. “Just… off. Bloated. Kind of sore? And like, that thing when you almost cry at the granola bar advert?”

She lets out a sharp little laugh. “The one with the golden retriever and the kid? You did cry at that.”

“Exactly,” you smirk, nudging your knee into hers.

The nervousness is starting to tip into giddy. Not because you know, it’s still too early to know, but because for a second, you both let yourselves imagine it. That this could be it. That maybe the procedure worked, maybe all the poking and measuring and waiting added up to something real.

Billie turns toward you slightly, her leg pressed solidly to yours now. Her voice dips, dreamy. “I keep thinking about names.”

You smile, head tilting. “Oh yeah?”

She nods. “There’s one I love. I don’t know if it’s dumb.”

“Tell me.”

She shifts, shoulder brushing yours. “Claire.”

You lean your head back, grabbing her knee with both hands. “I love that name.”

Her face softens into a slow grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

And for a moment, it’s like the whole room fills with warmth. Not from the air, which is still cool and damp, but from the feeling itself, hope, thick and golden, stretching quietly between you.

Then your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

The alarm.

Billie freezes. You do too. The whole room stills.

You both look over at the test on the dresser. Neither of you move.

“I’ll do it,” you whisper, even though your throat is dry and your limbs feel sluggish.

Billie grabs your hand. “No. Together.”

You both stand, half-leaning on each other. The test is flipped over, window face-down. Billie reaches first, then pulls her hand back like it’s hot.

“Okay,” she breathes, eyes wide, meeting yours. “You do it.”

You both reach at the same time. Hands bump. Fingers fumble. You’re laughing, both of you, this jittery little burst of absurd tension as you accidentally knock the stick onto its side.

“Okay, okay.” you say again, laughing. “Okay.”

And then you flip it.

The silence is immediate. Total.

Not even breath.

Just stillness. 

Negative.

The little single line feels sharp. Too sharp for such a small thing.

You stare at it. Billie stares too. No one speaks.

It’s like the room shifts in temperature. A hush so heavy it lands on your chest.

You glance at her. She hasn’t said a word. Just stares down at the test, jaw tight, mouth pressed shut like if she opens it, something will fall out she can’t take back.

You swallow. The disappointment floods in like something you were trying to outrun.

Your voice comes out gently. Too gently. Like you’re afraid it’ll startle her.

“Hey. It’s okay. Baby, hey. It’s okay.”

Billie blinks, but doesn’t look up.

You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her to you, holding her close, her body stiff against yours.

“They said this was likely, remember?” you whisper, mouth at her temple. “They told us not to get our hopes up too fast. This is normal.”

She nods against your shoulder, but says nothing.

You hold her tighter.

“I know it sucks,” you murmur. “I know. I wanted this one to be it too. I was already picturing the little socks and. Fuck.” Your voice cracks a little. “But we get to try again. And it’s gonna work. It is. Next time’s gonna be it.”

Billie exhales hard into your chest, a sound that’s somewhere between a breath and a sob. You feel it vibrate against your ribs.

She curls her fingers into your sweatshirt, clinging to the fabric like it’s keeping her upright.

“Hey,” you whisper. “We’re okay. You and me. We’re still in this. All the way. And I promise next time, next time I’m gonna throw up from hormones and I’m gonna cry over another granola bar ad and then we’re gonna meet our kid.”

That gets a little snort out of her. Muffled.

You smile against her hair. “Me crying over a commercial with a duck? It’s gonna be beautiful.”

Billie sniffles into your shoulder, and then her shoulders shake a little, and you realize she’s laughing. Just barely. Just enough.

“Stupid fucking duck,” she mutters.

You kiss the top of her head. “Stupid fucking duck.”

She lifts her head finally, eyes red and puffy, but her mouth tugging into the start of a smile. “I really thought it worked.”

You nod, brushing her cheek with your thumb. “Me too.”

Billie leans her forehead into yours, sighs deep and steady. “Next time?”

“Next time.”

And you hold her. Both of you a little quieter now. But the hope hasn’t gone. It’s not loud anymore, it’s tucked into the silence between your breaths, the way you don’t let go of each other, the quiet steady thud of your hearts still choosing the same rhythm.

28th February, Beverly Hills fertility institute, Los Angeles, 11:15am. 

The hallway feels the same as last time. Same pale tiles, same too-bright overhead fluorescents, same faint hospital smell, antiseptic and old sheets. You and Billie walk side by side down the long corridor, her hand brushing yours occasionally, not quite holding it yet. You’ve both been quieter this morning, less giddy than last time. Not exactly anxious, just aware.

Your shoes squeak slightly against the floor. You glance down at the scuff on the toe of your left shoe and then back up at the blue sign ahead: FERTILITY CLINIC – SUITE 406.

You’re a few feet from the door when Billie stops walking. You feel the air shift before you see her expression. She doesn’t look at you right away. Her hand comes up to tug lightly at the chain around her neck, thumb rubbing against the little pendant you gave her last year.

She swallows, jaw working.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

She finally looks at you, brow furrowed. “I mean it. You hated this last time. I know we both want a kid, but… there’s other options. We can try surrogacy, or adoption, or literally anything else. I’m not gonna force you through this again. I don’t want this to be something you just… survive. You know?”

She’s rambling. Fast, breathy.

Her hand gestures vaguely. “I can’t stop thinking about how quiet you were for days after that first round. You didn’t even say anything when we got Thai food and they forgot the spring rolls. You always say something.”

You huff softly, the corners of your mouth twitching. “I really wanted those spring rolls.”

Billie groans. “See? You were traumatized.”

She’s trying to be funny now, to mask the panic in her voice. You see it all over her face, in the way she’s barely blinking.

You reach out and touch her wrist gently. Her skin is cool. She goes still the second your fingers land there.

“I want to,” you say quietly.

She looks at you, eyes searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. I want to try again. And if I change my mind, I’ll say. Okay?”

Billie’s expression softens, just a little. But her eyes stay serious.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

You lace your fingers through hers. She exhales slowly and leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. It lingers for a beat longer than it needs to. You don’t pull away.

“I just love you,” she mumbles against your skin. “And I don’t want this to be the thing that breaks you.”

You squeeze her hand. “It won’t.”

The appointment is shorter this time.

Or maybe it just feels shorter. The nerves are still there, your leg bouncing while the nurse checks your ID, the cold gel on your abdomen for the scan, the blood draw that makes you flinch just like last time. Billie holds your hand again. You squeeze hers tighter than you mean to, and she doesn’t let go.

The nurse, different from last time, younger, kinder voice, chats about the weather while prepping the syringe. It’s a new donor this time, one you both read about late one night, curled up on the couch. You had made a dumb joke about his height and Billie laughed so hard she snorted wine out her nose.

You think about that as you settle back into the reclined chair. About how it felt to be hopeful.

The nurse explains everything again, slowly, with the same calm, practiced tone: “We’re inserting the embryo now… it’ll only take a few seconds.”

This time, it stings less. You already know what it feels like. The pressure, the strange awareness of your own body in a way that’s hard to describe. Billie’s hand never leaves yours. You focus on her thumb brushing circles into your palm.

It’s over fast.

You’re told to rest for a few minutes, again, and Billie helps you sit up slowly. Her hand is warm on your back. The nurse hands you a printed sheet of instructions, another round of meds, a mild warning not to exert yourself. Everything echoes the first time, but with less dread. Less unknown.

On the way out, Billie carries your tote bag over her shoulder like it’s sacred cargo. You walk slower this time. Not out of fear. Just out of intention.

In the elevator, she finally says, “You okay?”

You lean your head on her shoulder and nod.

“I think I’m okay.”

And maybe this time, you really are.

15th April, You and Billie’s home, Los Angeles, 8:37am. 

The kitchen feels colder than it should for mid-April. The morning light filters weakly through the thin curtains, washing the counters in a pale, muted glow. Billie’s already there, her silhouette sharp against the pale cabinets as she moves around the small space, chopping fruit with a quick efficiency that makes the knife clicks sound harsher than usual.

You shuffle in from the bedroom, the soft padding of your bare feet muffled by the thick rug, still waking up. The scent of oats and cinnamon is supposed to feel comforting but instead just sits heavy, like the silence between you.

Billie slams the ceramic bowl down on the counter with a sharpness that echoes through the room. The fruit tumbles slightly over the rim, the sound startling in the stillness.

“Here,” she says, voice clipped. “Breakfast.”

You blink, surprise prickling your skin. The sharpness in her tone isn’t like her usual morning voice. There’s an edge, a tension you can almost see vibrating in the air.

“I.. uh thanks,” you say softly, reaching for the bowl.

She doesn’t look at you. Instead, she turns to the stove and stirs the coffee pot like it might explode if she doesn’t keep moving. You bite your lip, trying to swallow the lump of discomfort rising in your throat.

You don’t say anything at first, but the frustration builds quietly beneath your ribs, twisting tighter with every second. The IVF hormones you’re on are rewriting your body in ways that catch you off guard, the emotional swings, the nausea that pops up without warning, the sudden hot flushes. You’re notyourself. Neither is Billie. Clearly.

Finally, the words come out, sharp despite your effort: “Billie, what’s going on? You’re being… snappy.”

She stiffens, the spoon clattering against the pot. “I’m not snappy,” she says quickly, voice brittle. “I’m just… stressed.”

“Stressed about what?” you ask, voice quiet but firm.

Billie whirls around, eyes wide and a little wild, like she’s been holding this in for too long. “You think this is easy for me? Watching you like this, up and down every day, thinking every cycle will be the one, and then it’s not. It’s like I’m constantly waiting for you to break. And I’m scared. Scared it’ll all fall apart.”

You feel the sting of tears, and your voice cracks, “I’m scared too.”

She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just. Sometimes I’m a bitch because I’m scared.”

The room feels smaller, the air heavier. You step closer, trying to bridge the distance.

“I’m sorry I’m so hormonal. I don’t mean to snap.”

Billie nods, biting her lip.

You both try to sit down at the small kitchen table, but before you can even lift your spoon to your mouth, a wave of nausea hits you like a freight train. You clamp your hands over the edge of the counter, eyes wide with panic.

“Bills,” you whisper, voice tight. “Bills, stop.”

Billie freezes, brows knitting together. “What?”

You shake your head, but your throat tightens. The room tilts. Your knees buckle slightly.

“Please,” you manage, voice almost gone.

“What?” Billie’s voice is sharp now, worry blooming across her face. “You’re stressing me out. What is it?”

You don’t answer. You jump up and rush to the kitchen sink, bending over just in time.

The first heave hits, hot and harsh. You hate being sick. Hate the weakness, the vulnerability. Behind you, Billie is instantly there, steadying your hair, soft hands tucking strands behind your ear.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, voice low and calm. “It’s okay.”

You heave a few more times, Billie brushing your hair back, rubbing circles on your back. The room spins a little less with each wave.

She hands you the glass of water you’d barely touched at breakfast. Your hands tremble as you take a few sips, spit out the harsh taste, then take a few more and finally swallow.

Billie’s voice is gentle, tentative: “Do you want to lie down?”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t feel sick. Maybe I just… ate something weird last night.”

She watches you carefully, nods, then moves to grab the bottle of painkillers from the counter.

“You think you’re coming down with something?” she asks quietly.

“No,” you say, voice firmer now. “I just… don’t think so.”

You both sink onto the sofa, Billie’s legs stretched out with you half-curled into her lap. She strokes your hair slowly, the rhythmic motion grounding.

Minutes pass. The room is quiet except for the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional distant car passing.

Suddenly, Billie laughs, soft and surprising, breaking the tension like glass shattering.

“Oh my god, we’re so dumb,” she says, shaking her head.

You giggle, the sound light and shaky. “What are you even talking about?”

Billie’s lost in thought for a moment, then looks at you with that serious half-smile she gets when she’s both amused and exasperated.

“You’re such a weirdo, Bills,” you tease.

She shakes her head, expression unreadable for a beat. Then, with that same sharp edge returning but softened by affection, she says, “Do me a favour.”

“What?”

“Take a test.”

You practically leap off her lap. “Oh my god, we’re so stupid.”

She laughs, nodding, the sound rich and warm.

You dart down the hallway, heart hammering, grabbing the test from the bathroom cabinet with trembling hands. The bathroom feels impossibly small, the light too bright, the silence too loud. You close the door behind you and lean against it for a second, steadying your breath.

You don’t look at it yet. You don’t even think about looking at it. You just walk slowly back into the living room, still a little dazed from throwing up, still wiping the corner of your mouth with your sleeve, and the pregnancy test held carefully between your fingers like it might burn you.

Billie’s sitting exactly where you left her on the couch, her arms resting loosely over the back cushions, her head tilted back, jaw tight. Her whole posture is restless still, like she hasn’t exhaled yet.

You sit down beside her, easing the test down on the coffee table, face down.

No one touches it.

Not yet.

Your knees tap together gently, rhythmically, and Billie picks up on it and lets her knee start brushing yours, soft back-and-forth, a silent kind of grounding. Her fingers come to rest on the outside of your thigh, thumb tracing the seam of your sweatpants.

Your mouth still tastes like sick. Acidic and stale. You’d barely touched breakfast and now you’re weirdly starving but also queasy. Your body doesn’t quite know which direction to go in.

“Still hungry,” you mumble, like it’s a neutral fact, a simple announcement. Trying not to make everything feel like it means something.

Billie lets out a short little huff of a laugh. “Of course you are. You puked up your whole stomach.”

“I didn’t even eat anything yet.”

“Exactly,” she says. “That’s how bad it was. Ghost puke.”

You laugh softly, letting your head fall sideways onto her shoulder, just for a second. She smells like the kitchen, like cinnamon and oat milk and dish soap and her own warm, sleepy skin underneath. Familiar. Calming.

You’re both pretending you’re not thinking about it. Not thinking about the test lying flat and silent between you on the coffee table. Not thinking about five minutes.

You try casual. “Maybe after this we do bagels. That place near the park.”

Billie raises an eyebrow. “You want bagels after throwing up?”

“I always want bagels.”

She smiles a little, tugs at the end of your sleeve. “That’s true.”

You nod, eyes on her, watching the way her mouth shifts between nervous and soft. She’s trying too. Trying to play it cool. To keep from overloading this moment.

You take a breath, throat still raw, and say gently, “If it’s negative again… it’s okay, baby.”

Billie’s face twitches, just barely, but she nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“We’ll keep going,” you say. “We’ll figure it out.”

Billie doesn’t answer, just swallows and looks down at the floor.

You go quiet again. The low hum of the fridge filters in from the kitchen. The weight of the test on the table in front of you starts to feel like gravity pressing down on your ribs. Your phone buzzes, jolting you both.

The timer.

You both sit up straighter, Billie’s knee bouncing slightly, her fingers flexing on her lap. You reach forward first, your hand hovering for a second. Then you flip it over.

It takes a second to register.

Then you both lean closer, your eyes narrowing, staring like it might morph if you blink too fast.

Two lines. Clear. Unmistakable. Positive.

You gasp.

“Billie” your voice breaks halfway through her name.

Billie stares at it for a beat longer, frozen. Then her mouth drops open. “Oh my god.”

You’re laughing before you even realize it, breathless and giddy and half-delirious. Billie looks at you, then laughs too, too loud, almost stunned, and grabs your face with both hands, kissing you hard and quick and messy.

“Holy shit,” she says against your mouth.

You pull back, both of you grinning like idiots. “Billie. Billie. It’s real.”

She kisses you again, softer this time, slower, almost reverent. “You’re pregnant.”

You giggle, nose scrunching. “I’m gonna throw up again.”

She laughs, head falling against your shoulder. “From joy. It’s fine.”

You nod, eyes glassy now, still trying to believe it’s real. “I love you.”

She looks up, eyes shining. “I love you so much. Oh my god.”

You both collapse sideways on the couch, tangled and laughing, half on top of each other, hearts hammering, hands roaming like you’re trying to memorize each other’s shape. You cradle the back of her head, pressing your cheek against her temple.

“This is happening,” you whisper.

She nods against your skin. “It’s happening.”

For a long while, neither of you move. You just breathe together, wrapped up in each other, the test sitting on the coffee table in front of you. 

17th April, San Laurel Restaurant, Los Angeles, 6:40pm. 

You stand outside the restaurant for a minute too long. You and Billie have planned this quickly, a nice dinner with all of Billie’s family to tell them the news. Billie wanted to tell Finneas instantly, but felt bad telling one person first, so thought it best to group everyone together and say it to them all. The sun’s starting to dip, casting a soft golden hue over the glass facade of the place. A swanky but warm spot Billie picked, low lighting, lots of wood and plants and dark, comfortable booths. You’re both early on purpose. Billie checks her phone again, even though there’s no text, and shifts her weight from foot to foot.

You can feel her nerves humming through her.

Her hand finds yours, fingers threading instinctively, her palm warm and a little sweaty against yours. She squeezes.

“You good?” you ask gently, glancing over at her.

She nods, jaw tightening. “Yeah. I’m fine. This is fine.”

You give a small, dry laugh. “It’s totally fine.”

“They’re gonna be happy. Why wouldn’t they be?” she says, fast and low, like she’s rehearsed it.

“They will be,” you say, a little softer, giving her hand another squeeze. “They already know we’ve been trying. This isn’t a bombshell.”

She nods again, breath catching. “Right. Yeah. It’s not a bombshell.”

You both stand there in silence for another moment, shoulders touching, matching your breathing with hers without even thinking about it.

Inside, the hostess gives you a warm smile, guiding you to your table, a private corner booth with a good view of the room. Cozy. Soft candle on the table flickering gently. You sit first, sliding into the booth, Billie following beside you. She adjusts her jacket, then takes it off altogether, setting it behind her. You do the same.

There’s a quiet tension between you. Not the bad kind. Just the electric, hovering energy of waiting.

Billie taps her fingers on her thigh. Her leg’s jiggling. You rest your hand on it to still her, and she sighs, leans a little closer into your side.

“They’re gonna be so annoying,” she mutters.

You smirk. “Yeah, but in the good way. Maggie’s gonna cry, huh?”

“Probably.” Billie chuckles, “And my dad’s gonna be all like, ‘I’m gonna build a crib with my bare hands’.”

You laugh. “Sounds like him.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “Finneas is gonna gloat. He’s been waiting to be an uncle since, like, 2016.”

“Well, he doesn’t get full bragging rights until the baby actually comes.”

“Yeah, but he’s gonna start anyway.”

You smile, watching the way she keeps fidgeting with the edge of her napkin, biting back a grin, like it’s all finally settling into place inside her. She’s scared, but she’s also already picturing it: everyone’s reactions, the chaos, the love.

You brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re good,” you say softly.

She leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “We’re good.”

A few minutes later, they start arriving, one by one and all at once. Finneas and Claudia first, Finneas in some long corduroys and a sweater, Claudia in a soft dark brown off the shoulder sweater with a long black skirt that just brushes her shoes. He spots you both and waves immediately, grinning like he knows something.

Then Maggie, warm and glowing as ever, hugging you both right away, fussing over your jackets like she’s trying to mother you from the second she walks in. Patrick’s right behind her, smiling softly before saying something irrelevant to Finneas. The booth fills quickly with coats and warmth and the smell of fresh bread from nearby tables. Everyone scoots in close. Billie’s thigh presses against yours again, this time a little more settled.

General chit chat begins. How was traffic. How’s tour prep. How’s the studio. Claudia’s been working on a new short film. Maggie just came back from Oregon. Patrick’s got a new woodworking project. Nothing serious. Easy laughter. Light tension in your chest, but it’s not bad. Just waiting.

Finneas hasn’t stopped smiling. You can feel it. He’s already halfway there.

And then, just as the waitress appears with a tray of waters and asks if you all want to order drinks, Billie suddenly straightens, like she can’t wait anymore.

“We have news,” she blurts.

Everything halts.

The waitress blinks. “Oh um should I…?”

“No, you’re good,” Billie says, waving awkwardly. “Just give us a minute. Sorry.”

The waitress nods politely and vanishes. Everyone turns to you. Five eyes, wide and waiting.

Finneas’ smile stretches wider. Claudia’s eyebrows go up. Maggie’s leaning in already.

Your hand instinctively finds Billie’s under the table. She grabs on tight.

You both say it at the same time, somewhere between a stammer and a nervous chorus.

“We’re pregnant, she’s pregnant, I’m pregnant. We’re having a kid.”

It comes out tangled and overlapping and chaotic. Billie’s voice high with nerves, yours catching on the word pregnant like you still can’t believe it belongs to you. You both dissolve into laughter immediately, covering your faces for a second.

“Wait” Billie says, laughing, “let me say it like a normal person.”

She clears her throat. “She’s pregnant. We’re having a kid.”

You nod, wide eyed and still giddy. “I’m pregnant. We’re having a kid.”

The booth erupts.

“Oh my god!” Maggie claps her hands together, then reaches across the table to grab both your hands.

“You’re kidding!” Claudia says, eyes wide, a grin breaking across her face.

“I knew it,” Finneas says smugly. “I knew it.”

Patrick just lets out a long, satisfied exhale. “Hell yes.”

Billie’s eyes flick to yours, relieved and glowing. You lean into her side and she kisses your temple, fast and soft.

Then the questions start flying.

“How far along?”

“When did you find out?”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Are you showing?”

“Can I knit something?” Maggie asks.

Finneas is already trying to decide what uncle name he wants. “I’m not doing Uncle Finneas. That’s a mouthful. I’m going with Unkie Fin.”

“Please don’t,” Billie groans.

Claudia asks if you’re craving anything. Billie starts talking about how weird your appetite’s been. Patrick starts asking about your vitamin intake and what you want for the nursery. Maggie’s eyes keep going misty every time she looks at you.

The drinks arrive somewhere in the middle of it, wine for them, sparkling water for you and Billie. Glasses clink. Laughter bubbles up. You sit back, one hand still tucked under the table, resting on your belly.

You’re not showing. Not yet. But it’s real.

It’s so real.

Billie leans over, whispering in your ear, voice soft and full of wonder, “We really did it.”

You nod, not even trying to hide your grin. “We did it.”

Your hand slides into hers again under the table. You squeeze once.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Billie fully relaxes into you.

30th April, French Quarter, New Orleans, 12:33pm. 

The day starts slow. New Orleans feels like it’s breathing around you, heavy and humid, rich with texture and smell and sound. The streets are a mosaic of uneven brick and old stone, with iron balconies curled above your heads like quiet lace. Spanish moss sways in the trees overhead. Somewhere distant, brass carries faintly through the air.

Billie’s hand is warm in yours, her fingers hooked lazily between yours as she walks half a step ahead, swinging your arms. She’s wearing loose drawstring pants and one of your t-shirts under a baggy, open flannel, sunglasses pushed up into her messy blonde bun. No makeup, no entourage. Pretending to be someone else, hoping to not be noticed, praying today can just be you and her. A day off in the middle of the North American leg of the tour. 

Your body feels good today. Or as good as it can. You’ve been lucky so far, slight nausea, just the heavy-tired afternoons and a weird relationship to food. You’re early enough that your jeans still fit, but there’s a new tenderness to your body, a low, constant buzz in your skin and a surprising softness in your belly. Every few hours, you remember again. It’s happening. This is real.

Billie has been purely magnetic. Glued to you in every moment you’re allowed to be alone. Watchful, slightly obsessed, even when she tries to play it chill. Her touch has changed, gentler sometimes, reverent in a way you feel in your chest. But other times, she’s manic with excitement. Today she’s that version of herself: bright-eyed and fidgety, leading you down quiet streets like she’s looking for something without knowing what.

A bead of sweat rolls down the side of your face. It’s hot, muggy, and your thighs are sticking a little under your skirt, but you don’t care. You keep looking at her. She keeps glancing back like she can’t believe you’re really there.

“I still can’t believe I get to have you and a baby,” she says, like she can hear your thoughts.

You smile, heart rising warm and slow. “I know”

Billie lets out a puff of air, like it still hasn’t settled for her either. She bumps her shoulder into yours, then grabs your arm and swings it a little.

“Okay, so,” she says, glancing around the street. “We have four hours. What do you wanna do? French Market? Eat ten beignets and throw up in the street?”

“Tempting,” you say. “But no vomiting today.”

Billie laughs and tugs your hand, pulling you along past another wrought-iron fence. Her rings clink against your fingers, loose and familiar. You pass a bookstore with dusty windows, a record shop blaring something bluesy out of old speakers, a guy painting on the sidewalk. People wander past in loose cotton clothes and sunglasses, no one in a rush, nobody noticing. It’s a slow city, and today it feels like time is stretching open for you.

You’re halfway across the next block when Billie freezes.

She stops so abruptly your arm jolts.

“Baby,” she says, breathless. Her hand tightens in yours. “Baby. Look.”

You follow her gaze, and smile instantly.

It’s a tiny corner store, almost tucked away between a jazz bar and a tarot shop. Wooden shutters painted a fading green. The words Petite Bébé hand-painted in delicate gold script on the window. Inside, it’s all soft pastels, tiny onesies hanging like garlands, miniature shoes no bigger than two fingers, and plush animals lined up like an audience.

Your grin spreads, unstoppable.

Billie’s already pulling your hand toward the door.

She practically runs inside.

The little bell overhead jingles, and the air changes instantly, cooler, quieter, smelling like cedar and baby powder and something soft you can’t name.

“Oh my god,” Billie breathes.

The woman behind the counter glances up and smiles, then looks politely away, giving you your moment.

You just stand there, watching Billie turn in a slow circle in the middle of the store, her mouth slightly open, eyes sparkling like she’s thirteen again and just got her first real guitar.

“Look at this!” she gasps, grabbing the tiniest little beanie from a basket. It’s oatmeal-colored, ribbed, softer than air. She holds it up between two fingers, then presses it against your chest. “Feel this.”

You do. It’s impossibly soft.

“Billie,” you say gently, “we’re only like nine weeks.”

“I don’t care,” she whispers, eyes wide. “This is so small. How do babies fit in this? Is this real?”

You’re laughing now, giddy and warm and overwhelmed by how her she is. The store is quiet except for Billie’s delighted commentary.

She moves through the space like she’s floating.

“Oh my god,” she groans, picking up a onesie with tiny embroidered bananas on it. “Look at this. This is so stupid. Our baby needs this. Needs.”

“Bananas?” you ask.

“You like bananas,” she says, matter-of-fact.

You smile. “So by that logic, our baby’s gonna come out wearing your baggy t-shirts and a cap”

“Obviously.”

She picks up a soft sage romper, then a cloud-patterned swaddle, then a pair of tiny socks that make her physically clutch her heart.

“Oh fuck off,” she says, holding one up to her cheek. “This is criminal.”

You walk up behind her, arms sliding around her waist. She leans back into you immediately, holding a pair of tiny white shoes up, already pretending.

“Can we get them?” she asks quietly. “Just one thing? For the baby box.”

You nod against her shoulder. “We can get a few things.”

She turns in your arms, her face inches from yours now, serious suddenly.

“I want to remember this,” she says. “This day. The first thing we ever bought for our kid.”

You kiss her once, soft and slow. “I will.”

She kisses you back, her hands cradling your jaw. When she pulls away, she’s flushed and glowing and full of love in a way that breaks you open a little. You end up with a small pile at the register: the banana onesie, the oatmeal beanie, a grey swaddle, and a soft plush duck Billie named Quackford on the spot. She insists on carrying the little brown paper bag herself, clutching it to her chest like a sacred artifact.

Outside again, the sun’s a little lower, and Billie’s pace has slowed. Her other hand finds yours again, still swinging your arms gently.

“I can’t believe that’s ours,” she says, nodding to the bag.

“Me either.”

You glance at her. She’s looking ahead, her expression calm now, full. The light hits her face just right, gold on her cheekbones, warmth pooling at her collarbone, and you think you’ve never seen her look more at home in the world.

“I keep thinking,” she says softly, “how lucky they’re gonna be. Like whoever they are. However they come out. They’re already so fucking loved.”

You swallow against the sudden lump in your throat.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “They are.”

You walk like that for a long time, hand in hand, Billie with the little bag tucked to her chest, the French Quarter humming gently around you. It feels like the start of something holy.

20th May, I-57 Highway, somewhere near Chicago, 2:10am. 

The air in the bunk is too warm, too close, thick with your breath and Billie’s. The blanket’s kicked off and crumpled around your ankles. You’re curled on your side in a tank top and underwear, Billie’s hoodie bunched up under your cheek, damp with sweat now. Your knees are drawn up, hands low on your stomach.

You groan again, softly, twisting against the mattress, and it wakes her again.

She stirs behind you, her thigh slipping between yours automatically, hand finding your hip. Her voice is rough with sleep, low and hoarse against your neck.

“Mm… again?”

You nod silently, jaw clenched. The dull ache is there again, low and deep. It’s not stabbing, but it’s insistent. Not enough to scream about. But enough to make your heart pound. Enough to make your palms slick. Enough that you can’t stop imagining worst-case scenarios in looping flashes behind your eyes. You hate how scared you are. Hate that you’re even thinking it. Hate the slow, creeping panic you can’t seem to turn off.

Billie shifts up onto one elbow, brushing hair off your face gently. She blinks hard, still mostly asleep, but you can feel her clocking the tension in your body. Her hand slips to your stomach, slow and careful.

“Same as before?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Kind of crampy. But lower this time.”

She runs her fingers in slow, grounding circles across your belly, not pushing down, just warming the skin. “Baby… I really think it’s okay.”

You exhale shakily, pressing your forehead to her collarbone. You can smell her, warm skin, faint traces of her shampoo, the deodorant she put on twelve hours ago. Her arms come around you tighter, protective.

“I don’t know. It feels weird. It keeps coming back.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re literally growing a fucking human,” she murmurs, trying to soothe you. “That’s gonna feel weird.”

You don’t say anything. Your heart’s thudding. You can feel the heat of it in your cheeks, your chest.

Billie tightens her arms around you, and you feel her exhale into your hair. “Okay. Talk to me. What does it feel like?”

You hesitate. “Like… low. Like pressure. Like period cramps, but more… sharp. Sometimes.”

Billie hums, nodding slowly, lips brushing your temple. “No blood though, right?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“No fever?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She strokes your side again. “Then I think… I think it’s just normal. Your body’s adjusting.”

“But how do we know what normal is?” you ask, voice smaller than you want it to be. “We’ve never done this before.”

You feel her body tense just slightly behind you. She kisses your shoulder, soft and lingering.

“I know, babe. I know.” Her voice is softer now, threadbare around the edges. “I hate not knowing too.”

You close your eyes, breathing through your nose. Another wave of tightness. It’s not sharp, but it’s enough to clench your jaw. Billie feels it happen.

She presses her forehead to the back of your neck. “Fuck, okay. I’m calling my mom.”

“You don’t have to”

“I want to.”

Her voice is decisive now. She shifts out from under the blankets and swings her legs down, reaching for her phone in the little mesh pouch above the bunk. The light from the screen glows pale blue across her face as she types.

You roll onto your back slowly, hands still splayed across your belly. Billie leans close and kisses your temple, then dials. She puts it on speaker without waiting.

The line rings once. Twice. Then clicks.

“Hey, honey,” Maggie’s voice answers, soft and a little gravelly with sleep. “Everything okay?”

Billie doesn’t speak right away. She looks at you. You nod at her, just a little.

“Um,” she starts, already stumbling. “Sorry to wake you, Mom. We just uh. She’s been having, like… stomach cramps. But lower. Like uterus-y. No blood. No fever. It’s been coming and going all night. She’s freaking out, and now I’m freaking out, and I don’t know if it’s normal or if we should go in or if I’m being dramatic”

“You’re not,” you murmur, reaching for her hand.

She grabs it instantly, squeezing tight.

Maggie exhales gently on the other end, that motherly mix of reassurance and tiny laugh. “Okay, girls. Breathe. Both of you. Deep breaths.”

Billie does, shoulders rising and falling visibly in the faint light.

“Now,” Maggie continues, “I’m gonna say this calmly, but clearly: this is completely normal. Totally. Especially early on. The uterus is already shifting, stretching, getting ready. Ligaments are moving. Hormones are surging. It’s supposed to feel weird.”

“But the cramps?” Billie interrupts, tight with worry.

“Common. Really common. Not fun, but expected.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your fingers curl around Billie’s.

Maggie keeps going, her voice warm and unhurried. “As long as there’s no bleeding, no severe pain that doesn’t let up, no fever you’re both okay. I promise.”

Billie closes her eyes. “Thank you,” she says, voice rough.

You whisper it too.

“I know it’s scary,” Maggie adds, gentler now. “And new. You’re in this weird twilight zone where things are happening, but it doesn’t feel real yet. But I promise it is real. And this part? The weird aches, the not sure what’s normal and what’s happening part? That’s normal.”

Billie leans forward, her free hand resting on your stomach beside yours.

“You should’ve seen her,” Billie murmurs, voice soft now. “She was curled up like a little shrimp. Scared me.”

“I still am,” you admit quietly.

Maggie’s smile comes through the phone. “That just means you care. But listen, if it gets worse, or if you really feel uneasy, go to a doctor. Always trust your gut. But right now? You’re just… early-pregnancy tired and stressed. It’ll pass.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just… letting the words settle.

“Okay,” Billie finally says.

“Okay,” you echo, quieter.

“Alright. Now both of you go get some water,” Maggie says gently. “Snuggle. Sleep. And call me whenever. Even if it’s two a.m.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Billie says.

“Love you both,” Maggie replies. “Goodnight, girls.”

“Love you. Night.”

Billie ends the call. The bus hums softly beneath you again.

She sets the phone on the ledge beside the bunk and climbs back in beside you, wrapping herself around you in one fluid motion. You fit yourself into her arms like you’ve done a hundred times before, like your body remembers the shape of her.

She tucks her nose behind your ear and murmurs into your skin, “You okay now?”

You nod, just barely.

She kisses your shoulder.

“I love you,” she whispers. “So much.”

“I love you too.”

She rubs slow circles on your belly again, grounding you, and you finally let yourself close your eyes, body relaxing into hers, the tension in your chest loosening just enough to let you drift.

6th June, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles, 4:10pm.

It’s nearly dusk. The last of the sunlight slants warm and soft across the hardwood, filtering through the pale linen curtains like spilled honey. Outside, cicadas drone faintly, just under the hum of Billie’s voice as she zips and unzips another suitcase by the bed. You’re lying half on your side, propped by a pillow wedged beneath your belly, Billie’s hoodie pulled over your body like a second skin. Her side of the bed is a mess, half her closet pulled out, little piles of clothes sorted but not yet packed. There’s a toothbrush still in a cup on the nightstand. Her boots by the door. Everything says she’s still here, but the growing weight in your chest knows better.

You shift with a faint sigh, hand smoothing over your belly. It’s not massive yet, but it’s unmistakable now, firm and round, visible even beneath the hoodie stretched across your skin. You feel the tightness across your lower back as you roll slightly. Not painful. Just there. Just always there now.

“Babe, have you seen my charger?” Billie’s voice floats out from the walk-in closet.

You hum faintly and tap the nightstand beside you.

She appears a second later, barefoot and frowning, her oversized tour tee sliding off one shoulder. She sees it instantly, grabs it, and tosses it into her bag like it’s somehow betrayed her.

You watch her silently from the pillows, cheek pressed to your fist.

She’s been buzzing all afternoon, packing, repacking, checking cables, mumbling to herself about show days and festival dates. But in between the movement, in between each dart of energy, she keeps glancing at you like she’s memorizing something. Like she’s trying to drink you in with her eyes, hold you still in her brain.

“You’ve got everything,” you murmur. “Just about.”

She glances over her shoulder. “I haven’t packed socks.”

“You packed six chargers but not socks.”

“Shit. Right.”

She disappears again. You hear drawers sliding open, then a quiet groan.

You smile softly and rest your hand on your stomach again. The skin is warm. A little tight. Billie hasn’t said it out loud, but she keeps looking at your belly like it’s evolving in real time. And it kind of is. Some mornings you swear it’s bigger than the night before. Some days you can almost feel your skin stretch.

You hear her walking back in, holding a ball of socks triumphantly. But the second she sees you watching her, the expression on her face changes melts into something warmer. Gentler. A little heartbroken.

She kneels on the mattress beside you, eyes flicking to your belly, then to your face. Her hands come down automatically, smoothing over the curve of you beneath the hoodie.

“You look more pregnant every day,” she says quietly, half in awe, half in disbelief. “I’m gonna miss so much.”

You reach up and catch her wrist. “It’s six weeks, Billie. Not six months.”

She doesn’t answer, just slides her hand under the hoodie, fingers spreading carefully across your skin like she’s taking your temperature with her palm.

“I’ll be back before you’re in the third trimester,” she murmurs. “And then I’m not leaving again. Not for anything.”

You nod slowly, eyes falling shut under the gentle press of her hand. “I know.”

“I’m gonna call you every morning,” she says, soft but fast, like she needs to get it out. “And every night. Call whenever you want. If you don’t pick up, I’m texting you until you do.”

You open one eye. “So… same as now?”

She huffs a laugh. “Worse. I’m gonna be insufferable.”

You let her hand rest there, warm and grounding. You can feel her thumb moving slowly in circles. The skin of your belly is so much more sensitive now. That thin, stretching kind of tender. You melt into the mattress with a quiet groan, not from pain, just overwhelmed softness.

Billie watches you for a moment. “If anything’s off. If you feel anything weird. Or even not weird, just… different. You call me. Immediately. Or Maggie. Or Fin. Or anyone. I don’t care who. I’ll come home if I have to. The whole tour can go to hell, I swear to god.”

You look up at her gently. Her eyes are glassy. Not wet, not yet, but you can tell she’s carrying it in her throat.

“Bill. Stop.”

“I’m serious,” she says. “Like, if you get scared even once, I’m on a plane. I don’t care where we are.”

“I know.”

“I told Maggie to come check on you every day. She said she will. Every single day. Even if she’s working, she’ll just come in the morning or at night. She said she’ll cook and do laundry and bring you stuff if you’re tired.”

You smile again, smaller this time. “She’s gonna be so sick of me.”

“Never,” Billie says immediately. “And Fin’ll drop by too. He said he’d take you to your checkups if I can’t get back in time. But I’ll try to be there for all of them. I really will. I already blocked a day around the second-trimester scan.”

You squeeze her hand gently. “I know.”

She leans down and kisses your forehead, lingering there. Her voice is muffled against your skin. “I just hate leaving you.”

“I know.”

“And I hate missing even a second of this.”

“I know,” you say again, softer.

She kisses your cheek, then shifts, carefully easing herself into the bed beside you. Her bag sits half-zipped on the floor. She clearly doesn’t care anymore. You sigh as she pulls the blanket over both of you, her arm sliding under your head. Your belly presses into her side.

“You need to stop stressing,” you say quietly.

She blinks. “I’m not stressing.”

You raise an eyebrow.

She puffs a small breath of laughter, pressing her nose into your hair. “Okay. Fine. I’m kind of stressing.”

“I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“You’re growing our kid in there,” she says, eyes falling to your belly again. “Every time I think about not being here while that’s happening, it makes me want to throw up.”

“Do you want to throw up?” you ask lightly, teasing.

She makes a face. “No. You’re the only one allowed to throw up in this house.”

You groan. “Don’t jinx it.”

She kisses your hair again, arm tightening around your back.

“I’m gonna write you little notes before every show,” she says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“Yeah. Like, like one for every night. Just a little folded-up thing. I’ll hide them in your drawer or something.”

You look over at her, already grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” she says. “I love you.”

Your smile fades into something warmer, deeper. You reach up and cup her face. Her cheek presses into your palm like it belongs there.

“I love you too.”

She leans in and kisses you, slow and steady, her fingers still splayed protectively over your belly like she’s trying to memorize the shape of it. It’s quiet for a long time after that. Just breath and skin. Just the weight of being close.

Eventually, she pulls back and whispers, “You’ll call me if you miss me?”

You nod. “Even if it’s just to complain.”

“I’ll always pick up.”

“I know.”

22nd June, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles, 3pm. 

The house is unusually quiet, the kind of stillness that makes your skin crawl a little, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. You’re wandering from room to room, the soft padding of your feet muffled by thick rugs, your hands tracing the edges of furniture like you’re anchoring yourself somewhere solid.

Your body feels off, heavy in places, lightheaded in others. The nausea is there, a low tide swelling and retreating unpredictably, settling in your throat and making your stomach churn. You press your palm to your belly, tracing the smooth curve beneath your shirt, your fingertips almost reverent.

It’s still early enough that the symptoms fluctuate like a shadow, sometimes strong enough to make you sit down, other times barely a whisper beneath the hum of the house.

You stop in the kitchen, the sunlight through the window warm on your face despite the unsettled feeling in your gut. Maggie had dropped off a bag of food earlier, a small, thoughtful bounty of homemade soups, fresh fruit, and little sandwiches wrapped neatly in parchment paper.

You open the fridge, take out a container of bright carrot and ginger soup, the steam rising in thin tendrils as you spoon it into a bowl.

As you eat, your phone buzzes, a message from Billie.

“How are you feeling, baby?”

You pause, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You want to be honest but don’t want to worry her too much. After a breath, you start typing.

“Still a bit sick. The nausea won’t quit. Sometimes it’s just this constant pressure in my chest, like it’s not just my stomach but everything beneath it.”

“The headaches are coming back too, all the time.”

“I’m trying to eat but it feels like I’m forcing it down.”

Almost immediately, the reply pops up.

“I’m sorry, love. I hate that you’re feeling like this. But it’s okay, it’s all normal, you’re doing so well.”

“Make sure you’re drinking water, even if it’s just tiny sips. I wish I could be there to rub your back and hold you.”

You smile faintly, eyes closing for a moment before typing again.

“Maggie brought soup. The carrot and ginger one is actually really good. I’m trying to rest but the nausea is shit”

“Ik its normal but like just feels funny”

The phone buzzes with her next message, quicker this time.

“You’re stronger than anyone I know. And if anything gets worse, you call me. Or Maggie. Or the doctor. We’re all here.”

You pause, the phone slipping from your fingers for a moment. The house feels colder, lonelier.

But then the screen lights up again.

“I love you so much.”

“I’m counting down the days until I’m back with you. Miss you sm.”

Hours later, the sky outside dims to a deep indigo, and your body feels like it’s made of lead. You lie back on the couch, knees drawn up, a blanket over your legs. Your eyelids are heavy, the nausea settling into a dull ache that threads through your bones.

Your phone lights up with an incoming call. The name on the screen is “Bills🩷”

You answer almost immediately, your voice a groggy whisper.

“Hey.”

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Billie murmurs, voice soft but steady. “How’re you feeling?”

You let out a tired sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

She laughs quietly, the sound like a balm. “I wish I was there to make it better.”

“Mmm,” you mumble, your voice thick with sleep. “Me too.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the faint hum of a hotel room somewhere far away, the faint muffled crowd noise from a distant stage down the phone. 

“I’m calling because I want to hear your voice before you sleep,” she says. “Even if it’s not night where I am.”

You smile softly, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m glad.”

“Me too. I’m gonna stay on the line until you fall asleep.”

You mumble something unintelligible, but it sounds like a promise.

7th July, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles, 11:50am. 

The door crashes open like a burst of sunlight, jolting the quiet calm of the apartment. Billie is back, her energy raw, electric, spilling out in a breathless rush as she steps inside, cheeks flushed from travel and excitement. She barely stops to set her bags down before she’s across the room, hands immediately searching for you.

“Hey, hey, how are you? How’re you feeling?” she asks, voice quick and soft but urgent, like she’s afraid to miss a single detail of how you’re really doing.

You’re lying on the couch, bundled in one of those thick blankets Maggie brought last week, the one with the softest fleece that smells faintly of lavender. The afternoon light, golden and gentle, spills through the large windows, casting long shadows that stretch toward the quiet city outside.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, voice just above a whisper. Your body is heavy, weighted with exhaustion that no nap or sleep seems to fully shake off anymore. “Just tired.”

Her hands find your belly without hesitation, rubbing slow, soothing circles. “You’re doing amazing,” she murmurs, voice thick with something like awe. “Look at you… look at us.”

You smile faintly, fingers curling around hers, taking a deep breath to steady yourself against the wave of relief and excitement that’s bubbling up inside you. It’s sweet, the way she’s so animated, but it also feels like too much sometimes. So much energy when you’re this tired.

Billie scrambles over to the corner, where several bags and small boxes are piled high, a chaotic mountain of surprises she’s been carrying across continents for weeks. She kneels down, eager to show you every single thing.

“Look at this,” she says, holding up a tiny cream-colored sweater, so soft it almost dissolves beneath your fingers. “A fan knitted it and handed it to security in Munich. Isn’t it the cutest?”

You run your fingers lightly over the wool, the delicate stitchwork, feeling the quiet care woven into every loop. “It’s beautiful,” you say, voice thick but steady. “So cute.”

She grins, then pulls out a smooth wooden rattle from a small German boutique. “This one’s from a shop in Berlin. Thought it’d be nice for when the baby’s a little older. Handmade.”

The wood is warm in your palm, the paint faded but still charming. You turn it over slowly. “Perfect.”

Next, she lifts a mobile from London, tiny felt stars and moons dangling from a pale wooden hoop. “For the nursery. Thought it’d be soothing.”

You blink slowly, tired but loving the thought behind it. “I like it.”

She’s on a roll now, pulling out a pair of tiny, leather shoes from a Parisian store. “Super fancy” Billie giggles out. 

You reach out to touch them, the smooth material cool and new. “So fancy. Little Parisian.”

Billie laughs. “Fancy baby.”

She moves back beside you, sliding her hand over your belly again, warm and grounding.

You want to talk more, ask about her trip, the crowds, the shows, but the heaviness pulls you down again. Your eyelids flutter, slow and weighted.

Billie’s voice trails off, sensing the drift. “Oh baby. Oh baby, I’m sorry. C’mere, c’mere, c’mere.”

Her arms wrap around you with tender insistence, pulling you close. Your head falls lightly on her shoulder, and the exhaustion finally claims you, slow and gentle.

Her fingers brush over your hair as your breathing deepens, the soft warmth of her body pressing against yours.

5th August, California Medical Centre, Los Angeles, 1pm. 

The midwife’s room is quiet except for the soft rustle of paper under you and Billie’s steady breathing beside the exam table. She’s perched on a low stool, knees spread, one hand resting warm over your thigh, the other gripping yours tightly.

You’re lying back, dress pulled up, belly bare and slightly shiny with the cold gel the midwife just smoothed over your skin. You feel heavy in a way that’s hard to describe, full and low and stretched thin, but calm. Billie helped you get dressed this morning, kissed your shoulder while you brushed your teeth.

The midwife, Kelly kind, calm, slightly frizzy braid, moves the doppler wand slowly, her eyes soft behind thin-framed glasses. A quiet burst of static, then.  A sound. Fast, steady. Like a tiny train. Galloping.

“There it is,” Kelly says, smiling. “That’s her heartbeat.”

Billie goes still.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, blinking hard. Her hand tightens around yours. “That’s her?”

You nod, jaw working. “That’s her.” You pause, then laugh, “Already decided it’s a girl Bills?”

She shrugs, “Got a feeling.”

The sound keeps going, rhythmic, strong, impossibly close. Billie leans in, kisses your cheek, then your temple, gentle and trembling.

“She’s really in there,” she whispers. “She’s okay.”

You nod again, barely able to speak. Kelly lets the heartbeat play a few seconds longer before clicking off the device.

“She’s doing great,” she says. “Textbook perfect.”

You breathe out slowly, like you’d been holding it without knowing. Billie touches your stomach lightly with both hands, still staring.

“Can we. Could we have a copy of that sound?” Billie asks.

“Of course,” Kelly smiles, already printing it out. “A little souvenir.”

You tug your dress back down. Billie helps you sit up. Her hand stays on your back.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah. That was just… a lot.”

“A good lot,” she whispers, forehead pressing to yours.

You rest there for a second, quiet, the folded-up heartbeat printout crinkling between your hands. It’s real. She’s real.

“C’mon,” Billie says softly. “Let’s get you something to eat. I think she deserves a snack.”

You smile, tired. “She always does.”

7th November, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles, 1pm. 

The house feels too big tonight. Too still.

You’re seven months pregnant now, and you feel every second of it. Your skin itches in weird places. Your back is a battlefield. Your belly stretches taut under the soft cotton of the tank top you put on this morning and never changed out of. It’s late. Billie’s been gone all day, and your body aches without her. You’re on the sofa, curled sideways with your knees drawn up as much as your stomach will allow, wrapped in one of Billie’s hoodies that smells faintly like her shampoo and her sweat. The cushions are sunken in the middle from how long you’ve been lying there. The living room is dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner and the dull blue light from the muted TV, which you haven’t really been watching. It’s just there so it doesn’t feel so silent.

You’ve been texting Billie for over an hour.

First a casual “hey when you think you’ll be home?”

Then a slightly more pressing “babe I feel really shitty, pls come home soon.”

And finally, blunt: “Please come home.”

No response. You know she’s at Finneas’s studio. You know her phone is probably on do not disturb, like always when she’s working. That’s not new. That’s not even a bad thing, usually. But tonight, you’re hormonal. And tired. And sick of feeling so alone in your body.

You’re still curled there, grumbling internally, when the front door finally creaks open.

Footsteps. Billie’s voice,soft, half-whispering even though there’s no one here to disturb. “Baby?”

You don’t answer.

She rounds the corner from the hallway and stops dead in her tracks when she sees you on the couch. “Oh shit, baby…”

You blink up at her, bleary and stubborn. You’d do anything to not cry right now.

Billie’s already kneeling beside the couch, hands on your shoulder, your hip. “Why are you sleeping down here? God, baby, why didn’t you wait, wait” Her phone’s out in an instant. She checks it, flinches. “Oh my god. Fuck. I didn’t see these. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you mutter. Your voice sounds cracked.

She bites her lip, guilt flooding her expression. “Baby… fuck. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I just…”

“It’s fine,” you cut her off, shifting your weight awkwardly. You’re not even sure what you want right now. To fight? To cry? For her to fix it?

Billie looks at you for a long second. Then, without saying anything, she slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.

“What are you doing,” you mutter as she hoists you up with a soft grunt, cradling you close against her chest. You’re not exactly light these days.

“Carrying you to bed. You shouldn’t be sleeping down here like this. C’mon.”

You don’t resist. You could argue. Could huff and say you’re fine. But you’re not. And Billie is warm and steady beneath you, her cheek brushing yours as she adjusts her grip and starts toward the stairs.

The house is quiet again except for her footsteps and the rustling of your clothes. Her heart thuds steady where your hand is tucked under her collarbone. You listen to it like a metronome, willing yourself not to start crying just yet.

In the bedroom, she sets you down carefully, easing you back against the pillows. She kneels beside you on the mattress, brushing hair from your face, eyes searching yours like she’s trying to see how bad this really is.

“You mad at me?” she asks softly.

You don’t answer right away. Your chest is tight.

“I didn’t mean to be gone so long,” Billie continues. “I lost track of time. I didn’t know you were feeling this bad today. I would’ve come home.”

You sit up, your tone sharper than you intend. “No. You wouldn’t have. You didn’t. Because I texted you and you didn’t look.”

Billie swallows. “I know.”

You’re already halfway to tears, your voice wobbling. “I was feeling fucking awful. My back’s killing me, I’m nauseous, my hips hurt, and I couldn’t get comfortable and you weren’t here.”

Billie nods, quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“And I just needed you,” you mumble.

That’s when it cracks. Not a sob, not at first, just your throat squeezing shut. You sniff, shake your head, blink hard.

“Oh baby…” Billie’s leaning in instantly, arms wrapping around you. “I’m here now, okay? I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You melt into her without meaning to, curling against her chest, breath hitching as your tears start to fall. You don’t even know what part hurts most. It’s everything. Your body. Your hormones. Her being gone. Her walking in all gentle and loving like nothing’s wrong when you’ve been quietly losing it for hours.

And then you laugh.

Just a little. Just this weird little burst of a giggle between sobs, because it’s so much and you’re so tired and your nose is running and Billie smells really fucking good.

She pulls back slightly. “What’s funny?”

You don’t look at her. Just shake your head against her collarbone.

“Baby,” Billie murmurs. “Talk to me.”

You groan. “It’s just. I’ve been ranting at you for twenty minutes, and now you’re asking what’s wrong?”

She smiles, arms still snug around you. “I know, baby. I just…” she stammers slightly “Just wanted to hear for sure, like. I dont know.”

You sigh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“I know.”

You go quiet. The tears ease. Your breathing slows. Billie’s fingers drift up and down your spine.

Then you speak, so softly it almost doesn’t come out.

“We haven’t had sex in so long.”

You feel Billie stiffen, just for a beat. You keep going before she can say anything.

“And I just. I don’t know. I feel gross. I feel tired and huge and sweaty and not sexy at all. And I miss it. I miss feeling like… you want me”

There’s silence.

Then Billie’s hand moves, slow and tender, cupping your jaw. You let her tilt your face up to meet her eyes. Her thumb strokes just under your cheekbone.

“Baby,” she says, quietly, earnestly, “I think you’re the sexiest person I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You snort, wiping your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie. “You’re just saying that because I’m crying.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re glowing. You’re carrying our baby. Your body is literally a miracle and also…” She leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, your throat. “…your tits look incredible.”

You laugh, a real one this time. A sharp little huff that bubbles out of your chest.

“And I haven’t jumped you because you’ve been exhausted. And I didn’t want to pressure you. And I’ve been gone. But not because I didn’t want to.”

You nod, tucking your face against her. “Okay.”

Her hand strokes over your belly. It’s round and warm and solid against her palm. She kisses your temple.

“I just miss it,” you whisper again, barely audible.

She kisses you once more, soft and slow. “I know, baby. Me too.”

She pulls you closer, pulling the blankets up around both of you. You feel your muscles finally begin to unclench, little by little, as her hand drifts over your back, her breath steady against your neck.

You’re still mad. Still hormonal. Still overwhelmed. But you’re not alone.

You’re not crying anymore. You’re just tired, warm, curled into her. Billie’s breath keeps catching in that way it does when she’s thinking hard about something and trying not to overstep. Her hand stills for a second, then moves again, slower this time, fingers spreading out wide over the rise of your ass beneath the blankets.

Then, her voice, soft, testing. “Would it feel good right now? If we… did something? Only if you’re not too tired.”

You shift slightly, the fabric of your tank top pulling tight across your chest. Your breath comes in a little deeper.

“I’m not too tired,” you say. And you’re not. Your body aches in a dull, constant way, but that ache’s always there now. What you are is needy. And Billie knows it. She always does.

She nods, the motion brushing her chin against your forehead. “Okay,” she murmurs, so soft it’s almost a breath. “Okay, baby.”

Her hand glides up under your shirt slowly, reverently, fingers warm and dry against your skin. She helps you sit up just long enough to peel your tank top over your head, dropping it to the side, then eases you back against the pillows. She takes a long moment just looking at you. Her eyes roam your body in a way that makes your chest tighten, not hungry, not urgent. Just in awe.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” she whispers, brushing a stray hair from your temple. “You have no idea how gorgeous you look right now.”

You make a sound, something between a breath and a scoff, and glance down at yourself. Your belly’s huge, heavy and full. Your thighs feel thick and soft and swollen. Your breasts are bigger than ever, straining against gravity, veins faintly visible under your skin.

“You’re literally glowing,” Billie says, and her voice is real, steady, not performative. “Like, actually glowing. You’re… fuck, you’re stunning.”

She kisses your collarbone, then lower, down the slope of your breast, her mouth gentle and slow. Her hand slides beneath the weight of it, supporting you as her lips close around your nipple, and the heat of her mouth makes your hips twitch instinctively. She groans softly like the taste of you is something she’s missed for too long.

“Your body’s doing something fucking incredible,” she murmurs, kissing across to your other breast, lips wet and reverent. “I’m so in love with you. Every inch.”

You sigh, your legs shifting beneath the blankets. Her voice settles into you like heat. Like balm.

Her hand slides down now, fingertips tracing over the swell of your belly, then lower, over the waistband of your sleep shorts. She glances up at you, waiting. You nod. She eases them down, slowly, carefully. Her fingers graze the inside of your thighs, thumbs stroking outward to guide you open. The sheets shift around your knees as you let them fall apart, hips rolling faintly into the mattress.

“You’re so soft,” she murmurs. “So fucking soft.”

She kisses the curve of your stomach, just above your belly button, then lower, onto the inside of your thigh. Her breath is warm against your skin. Her fingers brush lightly between your legs, gentle, exploratory, and you jolt, the sensation sharper than you expected. You’re wet already, sensitive and aching, your whole body humming with that tender, hormonal heat.

She doesn’t rush. Her fingers move slowly, slicking through you, parting you with quiet reverence. You gasp as she slides one fingertip inside, just to the first knuckle, her thumb brushing the softest little stroke over your clit.

Your hand finds hers immediately, fingers lacing tightly, grounding yourself.

Her voice breaks the silence again, whispery, close. “Can I kiss you while I do this?”

Billie would never usually ask you questions when shes fucking you, usually she would know always what’s a yes and what’s a no, could tell by the twitches in your thighs or the slight curve of your lip what you wanted. But this feels different. This feels tentative and testing. New.

You’re not exactly sure what you want but you nod, too fast. “Please.”

She leans in, capturing your mouth with hers as her finger moves deeper, curling slowly, gently. The kiss is soft, tongue sliding against yours with almost unbearable tenderness. Her hand rocks a little firmer between your legs, her palm warm against your clit. The combination makes you moan quietly into her mouth.

Every time her tongue brushes yours, she presses a little deeper inside you. Every stroke is matched with the rhythm of her thumb, lazy, circular, unhurried. Worshipful. Your hips start to move without thought, your hand tightening in hers.

She breaks the kiss, resting her forehead against yours, breath warm against your lips. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”

Again, Billie usually could tell, sense, how it felt. She would always ask just so she could hear you say it. But this feels different, and she isn’t asking for her own pleasure, shes asking because shes unsure. This is a whole new territory, for you both.

You breathe, barely coherent. “Good. Really fucking good. I missed this. Missed you.”

Her lips are back on your neck now, down to your chest, her tongue flicking over your nipple again while her fingers fuck you slow and steady. Her thumb never stops moving. Every kiss feels like devotion. Every breath she takes is through her nose, slow and focused, like she doesn’t want to waste a second of this.

“You’re so tight,” she murmurs, kissing your sternum, then your belly again. “So perfect. You feel perfect.”

You whimper, thighs starting to shake. “I’m close.”

“I know,” she breathes. “I’ve got you. Let go whenever you need to.”

She slips another finger in, slowly, carefully. You gasp, your hips stuttering. The stretch is deeper now, and she keeps kissing over your chest, your throat, your lips. Her tongue meets yours again, wet and slow, and Billie’s other hand cradles your cheek, her thumb brushing beneath your eye like she’s catching tears that haven’t even fallen.

The way she’s touching you, it’s not just sex. It’s everything. It’s love. It’s apology. It’s worship.

You moan louder now, mouth slack against hers. “Oh my god, Billie…”

“That’s it,” she whispers, her fingers curling just right, just there. “Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your whole body clenches, deep and tight, and then it breaks. The orgasm rolls through you like something thick and warm, like honey in your bloodstream. You shake, gasping, and Billie kisses you through it, slow and messy, holding your cheek in her palm as your hips roll and stutter against her hand.

“God, yes,” she murmurs, still moving inside you, slower now. “That’s it. That’s it. Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

Your chest is heaving. You’re panting into her mouth. She doesn’t stop kissing you, your lips, your cheek, the side of your neck. She keeps whispering things against your skin as your body comes down.

“So proud of you. So fucking proud of you.”

“Love watching you fall apart.”

“You’re perfect. You’re glowing. You’re mine.”

You melt into her, trembling, boneless. She keeps her fingers inside you for a moment longer, just holding you from the inside, thumb stroking gentle little shapes over your clit until it’s too much and you whimper.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay stop. I’m… I’m good. Jesus.”

Billie kisses your jaw. “You sure?”

You nod, hand still locked in hers. “I’m sure.”

She pulls her fingers out gently, carefully, and you flinch a little at the sudden emptiness. She brings her hand up and kisses the backs of her fingers like it’s sacred. Like you gave her something she wants to remember.

Then she lies down beside you again, pulling you close, her arms strong around your middle, one leg thrown gently over yours.

You bury your face in her shoulder, still panting, flushed and dazed.

“I love you so fucking much,” you whisper into her skin.

Billie kisses the top of your head. “I love you too, baby.”

She cups your jaw again, pressing your forehead to hers.

And in the silence that follows, you feel it again, that steady, grounding heartbeat in her chest.

15th November, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles, 12:17pm. 

You’re curled against Billie on the couch, her arm draped lazily over your hip, fingers tracing slow circles just above the waistband of your soft leggings. The room smells faintly of fresh paint and sawdust, mingled with the faint tang of lemon cleaner from the hardwood floor. The nursery is a swirl of creamy off-white and soft grey, the walls freshly painted, the floor scattered with paintbrushes and cloths. Finneas and Patrick are at it, crouched low near the baseboards, rolling on the second coat with practiced efficiency. The steady scraping and brushing sound feels soothing and rhythmic. 

Billie’s head rests lightly on your shoulder, her dark hair soft against your neck. Your fingers absently play with the hem of her oversized shirt, feeling the worn cotton under your palm.

A creak from the doorway draws your attention.

Finneas appears, stepping in carefully, his jeans and T-shirt splattered with flecks of white paint, tiny dots and streaks that cover his arms, a patch on his cheek, and a splotch on his hair. He grins sheepishly, brushing a hand through his hair.

“Guess I’m officially part of the decoration now,” he jokes, eyes twinkling.

Patrick chuckles from where he’s sanding the crib rails. “That’s some serious commitment, Fin.”

You smile, watching the easy banter. Then the kitchen door opens softly.

Maggie steps in, carrying a tray balanced with steaming mugs and a bowl of homemade soup. Her presence feels warm, grounding, like the roots of this whole messy, beautiful family.

“Thought you’d need some fuel,” she says, setting the tray on the low table beside you. Her eyes warm as they meet yours. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

You shift, the baby kicking faintly inside you, pressing a steady, insistent rhythm against your ribs.

“Tired,” you admit, voice soft, fingers tightening around Billie’s. “But good. It’s nice… this.”

Maggie smiles, sitting down gently in the armchair across from you, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s a big job, all of this. But it’s going to be worth it.”

Billie shifts, turning to look at you with a soft smile, then reaches over to squeeze your hand.

Finneas joins the circle, wiping his hands on a rag, settling onto the floor beside Maggie.

Patrick comes over too, carrying a paint tray and brush, setting them aside before sitting on the edge of the doorway. His smile is quiet but steady, like he’s soaking in the scene.

You watch them all for a moment, the laughter that bubbles up as Finneas recounts a funny mishap painting the ceiling, the way Maggie gently quizzes Billie about her diet and how she’s feeling, the easy flow of conversation about baby names and decorating choices.

Billie’s head falls back against your shoulder again, eyes closing briefly. You lean into her, feeling the weight of her warmth, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“Thank you for doing this,” you whisper.

Billie’s eyes flutter open, smiling. “For us? Always.”

The afternoon light softens through the windows, pooling golden across the floorboards, dust motes drifting lazily in the sunbeams.

The light is softer now, afternoon fading toward early evening, the warm gold of late spring casting long shadows through the living room window. Outside, the gentle hum of distant city sounds drifts in through the slightly cracked window, muffled cars, a bird’s occasional chirp. Inside, the apartment is quiet, calm.

20th November, You and Billie’s house, Los Angeles, 10am. 

You sit on the worn but comforting couch, Billie beside you, her hand resting lightly on your swollen belly. Your fingers brush over hers automatically, the rhythm of the baby moving beneath your skin like a slow, steady pulse. You shift, careful not to jostle the bump too much, feeling a familiar ache radiate low in your back and a heaviness in your hips that’s become harder to ignore these days. Eight and a half months now. The exhaustion that wraps around you like a thick blanket, the nights growing restless, the simple act of standing or bending becoming more complicated.

Billie’s watching you closely, that soft expression she has when she’s worried but trying not to show it. Her thumb strokes gentle circles on your skin, a constant, soothing presence.

“So,” you say, voice low and a little breathless, “we probably should talk about the birth plan thing.”

Billie snorts quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Birth plan,” she repeats like it’s a foreign language. “God, that sounds so official and… kind of cringe, doesn’t it?”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky. “Yeah, I feel like we’d just end up stressing over it and then totally ignoring everything we wrote down once the contractions start.”

She shrugs, her hand tightening a bit around your belly. “I mean, I get it. We want to be prepared, but also, I don’t want to feel like I’m ticking boxes on some form while your body’s doing all the work.”

You nod, blinking away a wave of tiredness. “Exactly. I just want to be comfortable, you there with me. No drama, no pressure.”

Billie leans in, her forehead resting against yours, eyes soft and serious. “We can do that. We’ll make it simple. No stupid rules. Just us, whatever feels right.”

The baby shifts, a sudden sharp kick that makes you gasp, and Billie’s lips brush against your temple. She smiles, then stands slowly, stretching her arms overhead and arching her back with a little sigh. 

“We should probably start thinking about packing the hospital bag soon.”

You groan lightly, already overwhelmed by the thought of everything that still needs to happen. “Yeah… but maybe tomorrow. Or the day after.”

Billie laughs, the sound like a warm caress in the quiet room. “Deal.”

You lean back into the cushions, Billie settling next to you again. Her fingers find yours, lacing tightly.

7th December, Billie’s family home, Los Angeles, 10am. 

It’s a Saturday afternoon and the house smells like rosemary and garlic. Maggie’s standing at the stove, stirring something with slow, practiced motions, talking with Finneas about some movie he’s obsessed with. Billie’s beside you at the old dining table, her hand on your thigh, thumb moving in tiny distracted circles, barely listening as she scrolls through a photo someone sent her of new tour merch. She’s in soft grey sweats and a tank top, her bare feet curled around the crossbar of the chair, rings catching the low kitchen light every time she glances up at you. Billie’s family home feels warm, familiar. The kind of warm that sticks to your skin, makes you sleepy and irritable in equal measure. Your back aches. Your belly feels impossibly tight. There’s a kind of tension in your body you can’t name, like you’re holding your breath without realizing it.

You shift slightly in your chair, trying to relieve the dull pull in your lower back. Billie looks up and leans closer, mouth by your ear. “You good?”

You nod slowly. “Just… hot.”

She kisses your temple. “Want me to grab a cold towel?”

You shake your head. “No, just, don’t move.”

She grins and presses her cheek to your shoulder.

Maggie calls over from the stove, “You okay, honey?”

“I’m fine,” you lie, smiling with your mouth but not your eyes. There’s a prickle behind your sternum. The beginnings of something. You don’t know what.

Patrick walks in from the back door with Finneas’s dog Peaches following behind, trailing grass on the hardwood. The room’s full. Everyone’s talking over each other. You try to keep up. Try to smile. But there’s a kind of fuzziness creeping in behind your eyes. The edges of the room feel floaty and undefined. 

And then a deeper ache rolls through your lower abdomen. It’s not a kick. Not pressure. Something else.

You breathe through it. Billie’s still laughing at something Finneas just said. Claudia is showing Maggie something on her phone. You place a hand on the table to steady yourself and push slowly to your feet.

You’re halfway up when you freeze.

There’s a wet warmth.

You blink.

A small gasp escapes your throat. Everyone’s still talking. You look down.

Your sweats are soaked from the inside out. A slow spreading patch of fluid darkens down the insides of your thighs and begins to puddle quietly onto the hardwood floor.

You whisper, “Oh.” And then louder, “Oh my God.”

It happens all at once. Finneas is the first to stop talking. Maggie drops her spoon. Billie’s head snaps up, her eyes flicking to the floor. The silence that falls is immediate, heavy.

“Oh my God,” Billie says again, this time a whisper, barely audible. She stands so fast her chair scrapes the floor.

There’s a beat of stillness before Finneas says, “Holy shit.”

Patrick exhales like someone just punched him. But the only sound in your head is the rushing of your blood. You grip the edge of the table with both hands.

Everyone’s moving now, gathering towels, grabbing phones, saying things like “It’s happening!” and “Do we have her bag?” and “How far apart are the contractions?”

But you’re frozen.

You don’t feel excitement.

You feel cold. Shaky. Untethered.

Your vision swims for a moment and you realize, your heart’s beating too fast. You’re holding your breath again.

Billie’s in front of you now. “Baby. Babe.” Her hands on your arms. “You okay?”

You can’t speak. You feel like if you open your mouth, you’ll cry or throw up or scream. Maybe all three.

Billie cups your face, smiling so wide. “This is it. Oh my God. We’re gonna meet them.”

You stare at her, hollow-eyed.

She doesn’t see it. She’s beaming. Excited. Jittery. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, beaming, glancing at Finneas, then Patrick, then Claudia, to each one she repeats with a giggly squeal “Oh my god.”

And then Maggie steps forward. “Billie.”

Billie doesn’t hear her.

“Billie,” Maggie says more firmly, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

Billie turns, eyebrows lifted.

Maggie dips her head toward you. “She’s scared, honey.”

Billie blinks. The grin slips off her face like a veil being pulled back.

She looks at you again, really looks. The color drains a little from her cheeks. “Oh… baby…”

You exhale shakily and whisper, “I don’t want to do this.”

She steps in close, wrapping both arms around your waist. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I was so caught up.”

You press your forehead to her collarbone and groan, “Where’s that fucking cringe, stupid birth plan?”

She lets out a nervous laugh. “Um… we never finished it.”

You groan again, more desperate.

Maggie’s already walking toward the front door, keys in one hand, phone in the other. “Alright. We’re leaving now. You two go get in the car. I’ll bring the hospital bag and your water and snacks. Let’s go. Time to move.”

Billie cups your face again, looking you straight in the eyes. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re doing amazing already.”

“I’m not doing anything yet,” you whisper hoarsely.

She smiles. “You stood up. You told us. You’re here. That counts.”

She helps you waddle carefully toward the door, arm tight around your waist. Her sweatshirt sleeves are pushed up, and you can feel the tremor in her fingers as they grip your hip.

As you reach the front door, you turn to see the dark patch of water still glistening on the hardwood floor.

“Shit,” you mutter.

Billie presses a kiss to your temple. “Leave it. Let Finneas clean it.”

You snort and almost start crying again. The porch lights feel too bright. The world too loud. You grip Billie’s hand like a lifeline. Everyone else is still buzzing. Still thrilled. But Billie stays with you, calm and close.

The car ride to the hospital is a blur of flashing lights, sharp turns, and the low murmur of worried voices. You clutch Billie’s hand like a lifeline, your fingers digging into hers so hard it almost hurts, but you don’t care. Your heart pounds so loudly you can’t hear anything else, only the rush of blood, the uneven rhythm of your breath, the dull, spreading ache in your belly. Every contraction crashes over you like a wave, relentless and merciless.

Billie’s voice is calm but urgent, sliding between reassurance and stress. “You’re doing so fucking good. I’m right here, okay? Look at me. You’re incredible.” Her thumb circles your knuckles, slow and steady, a tether pulling you back from the edge of panic.

You try to nod but the next wave hits, sharp and deep, and you groan, pressing your forehead against the car window, teeth clenched. Your body trembles, slick with sweat. The nausea rises again, and you close your eyes tight, focusing on Billie’s voice: low, warm, anchoring.

“She’s perfect,” Billie breathes, more to herself than anyone else, but loud enough that you catch it, the raw love threading through her words.

The hospital smells sterile and too bright when they wheel you inside, antiseptic, faint traces of floral disinfectant, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Nurses rush past, efficient and calm. Billie’s grip tightens again, her palm hot against yours.

A nurse takes your vitals, murmuring questions between contractions. Your body arches involuntarily, breath hitching. The pain slices through your abdomen, a deep pressure radiating from your pelvis like a slow-burning fire. You feel exposed, raw. Billie leans close, whispers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You squeeze her hand harder, eyes glassy but fixed on hers. “I’m scared,” you admit, voice small and brittle.

She shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “I know. But you’re the strongest person I know.”

Doctors arrive, a flurry of faces and voices. The world shrinks to the narrow bed, the harsh hospital sheets scratching at your skin, and the constant pounding inside you.

Pain pulls you down into its depths, relentless and all-consuming. Your legs tremble, the muscles spasming uncontrollably. Billie leans over, kissing your temple, murmuring praise into your hair. “You’re amazing. Every second. I love you.”

You dig your nails into her palm, trying to find control in the chaos. The contractions blur, pulse to pulse, each one a storm you survive only by holding onto her.

Then, suddenly, a nurse’s voice rises sharply, “We need to monitor baby’s heart rate more closely.”

Panic spikes. Billie’s eyes flick to the monitors, narrowing. “What’s going on?” she asks, voice taut.

The doctor’s voice is calm but serious. “Baby’s heart rate is dipping with contractions. We’re going to keep a closer eye. It might mean some stress, but we’ll know more soon.”

Your breath catches. Fear twists your gut tighter than the contractions. Billie presses her forehead against yours, whispering, “Hey, we’ve got this. Together.”

The tension pulses through the room, thick and heavy. You feel yourself trembling again, not just from pain, but fear. Billie strokes your damp hair, her fingers firm, grounding. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

The medical team adjusts monitors, checks your progress. The stress eases just enough. The baby’s heart rate steadies. You gasp through another contraction, Billie’s lips chasing yours in a fierce, grounding kiss, her hand never leaving yours.

The pain shifts, changes shape, until it’s a sharp, burning release, and then a gasp. Your body clenches, convulses, and finally lets go.

You hear Billie’s voice, sharp and breathless, just beyond the haze. “You’re doing it. You’re so fucking amazing.”

Your hands tremble, gripping the hospital bed rails, muscles shaking from the surge of adrenaline and exhaustion. And then, suddenly, a small, wet weight is laid onto your chest.

Skin to skin.

Your breath catches.

The baby is warm and slick, their tiny face scrunching, eyes closed tight. You feel the rapid, uneven beat of that tiny heart pressed against yours, so fragile and fierce all at once. Billie leans over, tears pooling in her eyes. Her hand cups the back of the baby’s head gently, as if afraid to disturb this perfect, raw moment. Your fingers find Billie’s, and you squeeze, so weak, so tired, but completely overwhelmed. Minutes stretch. The room is quiet except for the baby’s faint cries and the soft murmurs of doctors packing up, their voices distant but warm.

Billie lifts the baby from your chest, holding them close, cradling that small life with an awe you’ve never seen before. She presses a kiss to their forehead, then to your cheek, skin damp from tears and sweat.

You close your eyes for a moment, breath slow, heart pounding in a new rhythm, one of love, relief, and disbelief.

Then the door opens, and Billie’s family floods in. Maggie’s eyes shine, her smile wide as she approaches with a small bouquet.

“Oh, you did it,” she says softly, voice thick with emotion. “You both did.”

The room fills with warmth, chatter, and laughter, soft, overwhelmed joy spilling out in waves. You lean back against the pillows, utterly spent, eyelids heavy as exhaustion settles deep in your bones.

Billie wipes your forehead with a cool cloth, her touch gentle, reverent. “You’re incredible.”

You smile weakly. “We… have no name yet.”

Billie laughs, breathless and raw. “We forgot the stupid birth plan,” she jokes, but her eyes are bright, teasing.

You chuckle, voice hoarse, so tired it’s nearly a whisper. “Too tired to laugh, but I’m trying.”

She leans in, pressing her forehead to yours. “Well, we should probably pick something. Before the whole family decides for us.”

You nod, heart swelling in that small, exhausted way.

“I like… something simple. Strong,” you say after a long pause, tracing the curve of the baby’s cheek.

Billie’s grin spreads. “Yeah. Like her.”

You smile, finally steady. “Claire. You mentioned it, months and months and months ago.”

warnings: smut. English is not my first language!!!

a/n: got a little carried away at the end lol

- there’ll be a part 2✨🥺 also should i add warnings??? idk lmao um there’s some spicy language :,) anyways enjoy babes

“Bil can you please open the door?” I ask her, I’ve been standing outside her bedroom for at least 15 minutes now, she’s pissed at me and it’s kind of my fault... okay it is completely my fault, I posted on twitter about our relationship which is a secret, or was a secret, and billie didn’t want to tell anyone about us, at least not right now anyways, so here I am trying to unfuck this situation

“Billie please? I didn’t think anyone was going to see it I mean I had like 20 followers and my account was lowkey... until claire retweeted it... billie can you plea-“ she opens the door and her face red and blotchy with tears pouring down her face

“Bil I’m-“ I try to apologize but she immediately cuts me off

“Don’t even fucking say anything.” She spits at me, I’ve never seen her this upset.

“What would make you think that was okay? Fucking posting about my personal shit online? Both of us being together was literally the only thing I had that was private and you fucked it up! It’s all over the fucking internet y/n! What the fuck is wrong with you?” She questions me, my throat burning and my eyes filling with tears

“I didn’t think anyone would even see it billie-“ I begin, she scoffs sarcastically

“Yeah you didn’t fucking think? Of course you didn’t think when do you ever think? Huh y/n when?” She asks me, ouch that one hurt

“Can you just stop? I said I was sorry! I know I’m stupid for doing what I did!” I start to cry, my hands trying to wipe the tears falling down my face, “I know i fucked up, I didn’t think and I’m so sorry billie really, I don’t know why I did that I was just wanting to tell someone other than just keeping it to myself because I just love you a lot, and I wish i had a better excuse... just please-“ she didn’t let me finish

“Just leave me alone” she says, she stares at me for a second and then shuts her bedroom door in my face.

I just stand there letting the tears fall, what do I do?

I just realized that was the first time I told her I loved her.

I start walking down the stairs and as I get to to the bottom to open the door, I see her parents and finneas sitting on the couch, they obviously heard everything, but are acting like they didn’t, great that’s fucking embarrassing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt her...” I tell them, they just look at me.

I continue walking out their door and shut it behind me, that’s probably the last time I’ll ever see their house.

I hear the door open again and look back to see finneas coming out.

“Y/n! Wait!” He runs up to me, he looks at me sadly

“I already know I seriously fucked up you don’t have to tell me.” I tell him, he shakes his head and sighs

“No I was going to tell you that if you just give her some time she’ll come back around.” He says, I laugh a little and shake my head

“She hates me finneas, I took the last private thing she had.” I tell him

“Just give her time.” He says it again, he nods at me and runs back into the house

I bite my lip and my throat begins to burn again.

How much time?

-

Aubrey’s Challenge: Write a fic about each episode in season 12.

Word Count: 1185

Version en Español  –  PREVIOUS EPISODE

The cell wasn’t the worst cell you’d found yourself in. At least you weren’t in bloody clothes, like normal when a monster caught you. Guess there’s something to be said for humanity after all.

warnings: no warnings, just fluff.

synopsis: cuddling billie, falling asleep in her arms.

Finneas’s living room is full, but not loud, warm with the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses, the sound of old friends catching up over soft music pulsing from speakers tucked into corners. Laughter moves in waves across the room, easy and familiar. You sit tucked beside Billie on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket that someone had tossed over the backrest earlier, your legs curled beneath you, shoulder resting against her side. She’s animated, talking with her hands, eyes lit as she adds something to a story that has the rest of the room laughing. But you’re quiet. Not from discomfort, just… tired in a way that doesn’t fully make sense. Your body feels heavy and still, like you’ve folded yourself down smaller than usual, a little closer into the corner of the couch, a little deeper into Billie’s space than normal.

You blink slowly, your gaze unfocused as it drifts across the room, not really seeing. The heat from Billie’s body beside you is constant, her thigh pressed to yours, the edge of her hoodie brushing your arm, her perfume soft and grounding. Your head tilts, barely thinking about it, until it’s resting lightly against her bicep. She notices, of course she does, but doesn’t make a thing of it. She doesn’t pause her sentence, doesn’t shift, just gently adjusts so you’re better supported, her arm curling behind you like it belongs there. Her voice lowers not dramatically, not pointedly just enough that it slips into something quieter, softer. She keeps talking to the others, laughing still, but her hand finds your hair, her fingers combing slowly through it in a rhythm that’s comforting without drawing attention. She keeps you close. Protective without being outwardly overt about it.

Minutes stretch. You don’t say much, if anything, but Billie doesn’t push. She knows when to fill silence and when to let it be. Her fingers continue to drift through your hair, and then down your arm, drawing small circles with her thumb at your elbow. Your eyes are barely open now, each blink longer than the last. You’re not exactly sad but you’re not really okay, either. It feels like a low fog hanging just behind your ribs, something unnamed and thick and a little cold.

Eventually, Billie leans in slightly, her breath warm above your ear, her lips brushing just barely against your hair. 

“Are you falling asleep on me?” she whispers, her tone low, not teasing. You nod faintly against her shoulder, a small crease forming between your brows. 

She tilts her head, voice barely audible now. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You shrug, slow and tired. Your lips part, barely enough to let the words slip out, “Not sure.”