#kid fic

“But she’s just so bloody tiny!” James insists, and you apparently didn’t learn your lesson the first time because this manages to elicit another (painful) derisive scoff. 

“Yeah, sure. Try telling that to my crotch, Potter.” 

Remus — with no shortage of adoration — turns to smile at you in both amusement and sympathy whilst James only turns to direct his (still beaming) smile onto you. 

“I know angel, I’m sorry. I think you’re mental too.” 

“Gee thanks, bubs.” You huff good naturedly, though Remus abandons his habitual folding in favour of fussing over you and you worry you didn't appear as affable as you meant to. 

“I think what our darling partner meant to say” Remus offers pointedly, perching on the edge of the bed beside your hip “is that you’re phenomenal.”

“I don’t feel that phenomenal.” You counter, tongue apparently loose in your current state. 

“No?” Remus hums, a thumb swiping over your brow. “How do you feel?”

You take a moment to take inventory of your body. You’re not sure what hurts and what might just be phantom pains; ghosts of past hurts that the adrenaline couldn’t wipe away. You think everything might hurt but you’re also not sure you can actually feel much of your body at all. You’re quite sure you’ve strained muscles you didn’t even know you had, and you can’t figure out how the muscles above your chest bone hurt from labour, but they do. 

So, you settle on “tired.” 

“Yeah?” Remus asks at the same time James offers an encouraging, “Try to rest then, angel.” 

Your eyes flit over to Sirius — unfairly jealous that the man has found slumber in the most uncomfortable of places whilst you’re propped up on a certified tower of pillows and can’t seem to shake this sense of urgency. 

“It doesn’t feel like the right time.” 

James repositions your daughter on his chest as Remus hums in acknowledgment, encouraging you to continue. 

“I feel like I have to be ready for something.” 

“You’ve already done the hard part, dove.” Remus offers firmly but gently. “You’ve done what none of us can, you’re entitled to a rest now.” 

“But what if she’s hungry?” You ask, somewhat embarrassingly close to tears for seemingly no reason as you peep the small head of hair visible at James’ collar. 

“She’s quite content right now, lovely.” James counters with a smile so full of love that the stinging of your sinuses make its way to your waterline.

“If she’s hungry she will tell us and then we will tell you, okay?” Remus agrees, shifting higher up onto your bed to take your face in his hands. “You have three partners here to take over.”

With this, Sirius lets out a sharp snore due to his head falling forward, seeing him reposition himself; dark hair falling in waves over the backrest as his snores increase in volume with his new position. 

“Well, you have two partners here to take over.” Remus amends, shooting Sirius a look you imagine is meant to be scornful but is too soft around the edges to be anything short of loving. 

“Rest, angel.” James insists softly, the wattage of his beaming smile less bright though not lacking any love or glee despite it. “We’ve got it.” 

You suck in a breath that is shaky on its way out, your body sinking further into the hospital bed without your permission as Remus repositions the blankets around you. 

“She’s okay?”

“She’s perfect.” Remus replies. 

“Just like her mum.” James agrees. 

“Rest, dove.” 

And you have half a mind of cursing your body for hardly putting up a fight at all as Remus brushes a gentle thumb back and forth over the space between your brows, blinks growing heavier and heavier before your lashes meet in a gentle kiss, another gentle kiss pressed to your forehead as sleep greets you into its sweet embrace.

Your first trimester, you soon find out, is a bitch. Most days, you’re nauseous before you even open your eyes. It tears you out of your sleep, a gross, wavy feeling overtaking your body, your stomach clenching. You barely make it to the bathroom on time, kneeling with one hand braced against the tub, the other fisting the edge of the toilet seat, hacking up what little you ate the night before. It is hell.

You hear Cameron move behind you, his socked footsteps muffled against the carpet as he makes his way into the bathroom. New routine: Cam stays over every other night. He wakes up when you do, sleep still written all over his face, holding your braids out of the way as you barf.

He doesn’t say much while it’s happening. The last time he tried talking to you during, you snapped at him something fierce. He’s learned to just breathe with you, since. He keeps one hand steady at the nape of your neck, the other rubbing circles on your shoulder. When the nausea finally loosens its grip, he passes you a washcloth, already damp, like he thought ahead.

“Take your time,” he murmurs.

You shower while he makes breakfast. For you, he makes a dry bowl of French Toast Crunch because keeping dairy down has become an Olympic sport, and a strawberry banana protein shake he researched to make sure it was “safe.” 

For himself, he makes disgusting, smelly, abhorrent scrambled eggs. Eggs have recently moved over to the ‘Fuck NO’ food list for you. He opens a window and cracks the door while he cooks them.

After, you curl up at the table with your laptop and textbooks while he spreads his tablet and notebooks out on the couch, rewinding the same play over and over again. Every once in a while, he glances up at you like he’s checking you’re still there.

At the end of the day, after school, work, and practice, Cameron comes back to yours with more prenatal supplements, whatever food you were craving, and a duffel bag full of his clothes. He washes his hands before he touches anything, because you’ve been ragging on him for weeks about how the spread of germs could be catastrophic for you.

The two of you fell into this routine easily. Cam went head first, teeth bared and shoulders squared, just like he did everything else. He’s been everywhere, showing up after every practice with plastic bags full of goodies for you swinging from his fingers. At night, he fucks you slow and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll snap with too much pressure. You have to wrap your legs around him and dig your heels into his ass and beg to make him go harder.

But, the routine you’ve cultivated has to deviate a bit today, because you have your first appointment scheduled.

You’ve been thinking about it all morning, your stomach tightening every time you glance at the clock. You’re scared. You can admit this to yourself. The appointment makes it all real. It makes this go from a silly idea you thought of sometimes when you were bored during shifts, to an honest to God baby. You’ve rewritten yours and Cameron’s future just because you wanted security, stability. You sigh, the guilt overwhelming you.

“You good?” Cam asks, leaning against the counter while you slip on your shoes (sensible ballet flats. Real shoes are too much work.) He’s already dressed and ready, with a hoodie pulled on over a T-shirt, hair still a little damp from a rushed shower.

“Yeah,” you say automatically.

He hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t press. Another new part of the routine; Cam’s started backing down and taking you at face value again. Instead, he grabs his keys (he’s had a key to your apartment since the day after you told him about the baby) and opens the door for you, hand settling briefly at your lower back as you step past him. The touch is instinctive. Familiar. You sigh again.

The drive is quiet. The radio hums low with some sports talk show you’re half-listening to. Cameron keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, knee bouncing slightly at red lights. You shift in your seat, pick at your nails.

The clinic smells like antiseptic and fake flowers. You check in, take a clipboard, fill out forms. Cameron sits beside you in the waiting room, arm wrapped around your shoulder. From an outside perspective, you look like an adorable, expecting couple. Only one of those descriptors applies.

When the nurse calls your name, he stands immediately.

Inside the exam room, you perch on the edge of the table, paper crinkling under you. Cameron stands near the wall at first, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense like he doesn’t know where to put himself.

The tech is kind. Efficient. She asks questions you answer automatically—last period, symptoms, vitamins, yadda, yadda. Cameron listens like this is the last lecture before the final exam.

Then the gel is cold on your stomach, and the room dims, and suddenly there it is on the screen. A shape. A flicker. A baby. “And here’s the heartbeat,” the tech says, smiling.

The sound fills the room, strong and insistent and alive. Your breath catches, tears springing to your eyes before you can blink. That’s your baby. You’re making that, growing it inside of you. With every beat, you see flashes of your future, of the life you made happen: a big house with tall ceilings and a backyard swing set, a beautiful kitchen where Cam can walk in and scoop your kid into one arm before kissing your forehead like he’s been waiting all day just to come home to you. You see contract money ending minimum wage shifts forever, you see lazy Sundays with his hand on your round belly again—and it’s not a trick this time; this time, it’s because Cam knows that he wants nothing more but to create life with you—and late nights when he crawls into bed smelling like Irish Spring, pulling you close and whispering that you’re the only one who ever really had him.

Cameron makes a noise beside you, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. His hand finds yours without asking, grip tight, like he’s anchoring himself. You glance at him. His eyes are locked on the screen, wide and bright in a way you’ve never seen, not after big games, not even when scouts lingered too long on the sidelines. His thumb rubs fast, absentminded little circles on your hand. “Damn,” he whispers, reverent, eyes bouncing to you, the screen, and your stomach on repeat.

The tech asks some more questions, does some more looking, and tells you the due date.

Afterward, walking back to the car, neither of you says anything for a moment. You’re lost in thought, overcome with guilt and love and want. You want Cameron. You want him to make things official, to choose you. When he didn’t immediately fall in line after you told him you were pregnant, you figured he’d shape up within the next week or two, but it’s been a month, almost, and still no word of a label.

Fed up, you break the silence. “So…” you begin, searching for the right tone. Too aggressive, he clams up. Too soft, he’ll default to making you feel better and sidestep the question completely. “What does this mean for us?”

Cameron pauses with his hand on the passenger side door handle. He half shrugs, then realises that’s probably not the best response. He clears his throat, buying himself time. Finally, he responds, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Which is nice, comforting, even. But that’s not what you asked. You nod. “That’s fair,” you say, because you don’t want to push him too far. You have faith in your plan, in Cameron. You know things will turn out the way you want them to. They have to. He kisses your forehead as you get in the car.

That night, back in your apartment, he moves around like he belongs there—folding his clothes, lining up his supplements on the counter, reminding you to drink water. It’s all very confusing. When you crawl into bed, exhausted, he follows, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your shoulder, then lower, kissing along the small swell with something close to awe.

“You’re really having my baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough and low, almost disbelieving. His big hands splay gently over the curve, like he was afraid his touch alone might bruise the life growing inside you. You smile up at him, beatific.

It’s been a while since things were so gentle. For the past few weeks, the two of you sleeping together has felt more like an inevitability, a means to an end, an of course. You’re pregnant with his baby, he’s already at your apartment when the mood hits, of course you’d sleep together. It’s always rushed. Fucking for the sake of fucking, really.

Tonight, though, when he spreads your thighs, he sits back on his heels to get a good look in, taking his sweet time with you, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the inside of one thigh, then the other, breathing you in. Cam leans in and licks you slow, his tongue flat and warm as it drags through your folds, circling your clit with careful, devoted strokes. He groans softly when your hips twitches away from him, his big, strong hands coming up to pull you back to his face, before sliding two thick fingers inside, curling them just right while his mouth stayed focused and unhurried.

Your thighs begin to tremble around his head. One of your hands grab on to the sheets, the other clawing along his back. Your orgasm builds low and deep, crashing over you in a soft, shuddering cry, your cunt pulsing hard against his tongue and fingers. He didn’t pull away until the last aftershock faded, licking you gently through it like he was savouring every last second.

When Cameron finally crawls up your body, his cock is heavy and leaking. He fits inside you in one slow, deliberate thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a low groan. He stays there for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, voice thick. “Carrying my baby. So fucking beautiful like this. Gonna make you feel so good, mama.”

He starts moving, then, deep, rolling thrusts that you let you feel very inch of him. One warm, calloused hand roams along your body, stopping to cradle your bump, while the other cups your breast, his thumb teasing your sensitive nipple, drawing soft little mewls from you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper. He obliges, pace steady and intense, eyes locked on yours. You cum again, walls fluttering and cunt clenching around Cam’s length, bringing him straight to his own end. Cam groans your name like a prayer, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you, long, hot pulses that fill you until you can feel the warmth spreading low in your belly.

He stays buried inside you after, breathing hard, forehead still pressed to yours. For a long moment the only sound was your mingled breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he shifted his weight. Then his eyes flicked away, something unreadable crossing his face before he buried it in the crook of your neck again, lips brushing your skin. He's asleep before you know it.

You stare up at the ceiling, listening to Cam snore. You tell yourself this is progress, that this, your plan, is working. This is just the beginning, the awkward, introductory part. Once the sickness fades, once the season ends, once Cam gets used to everything, it’ll all settle into place, right where you want. You just have to wait.

It’s like your ultrasound opened up the floodgates. Suddenly, people are staring, whispering, smiling at you as if they know something you don’t. Your manager keeps giving you the side-eye whenever you have to step away to dry-heave in the bathroom, everyone you pass by on campus seems to stop and take a second look. It’s… a lot. You didn’t exactly include this part in your plan. It seems like you didn’t think to include any of the hard parts in your plan.

One afternoon, after Psych class, you’re rushing to meet Cam and slip into the bathroom for a quick tinkle. You always have to pee now, no matter how many times you’ve gone. If you to bathroom at 5, you’ll have to go again by 5:15. By the time you finish, you catch the lilting tones of three girls gossiping at the sinks, talking in low, conspiratory voices.

“…heard she’s pregnant with Cade’s baby.”

“Right before he blows up? Convenient.”

“Really? Jasmine told me they were just together last week or so…”

“Makes sense. I doubt he’d choose her over Jas without a hard push.” “Oof… Would hate to be her right now.”

You stay in the stall until they leave, then wash your hands twice, staring at your reflection.

You catch up with Cam in the hallway after his last class. “People are talking,” you tell him quietly, walking quickly to match his long stride. “In the bathroom. About us… and—” You go to mention Jasmine, but think better of it. You remember the fights the two of you used to have before you got pregnant: you begging him to choose you over her, him telling it ‘wasn’t even like that, on god’. You couldn’t put yourself through that again, honestly. And, anyway, it shouldn’t matter anymore. You’re pregnant with his baby. You doubt anything Jasmine has said about Cam has an ounce of truth.

Cam’s jaw tightens for a second, then smooths out. “Don’t listen to that shit. People always talk when something’s happening. Let’s get out of here.”

He takes your hand and leads you to his truck, telling you not stress too bad. “It can’t be good for the baby, and it damn sure won’t do you any good when you meet my family.” The drive to his childhood home is quiet, Cam’s thumb stroking the back of your hand in comforting circles the whole a way there.

His mom opens the door before you even reach the porch, pulling Cam into a tight hug, before rearing back and smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “You ever go this long without visiting us again, boy, I’ll send you right back where you came from!” She threatens, a teasing smile on her face. Cam’s brother yells out, “Yea, nigga!!” from somewhere in the house.

“I’m sorry, ma.” Cam chuckles, apologetic. “I was a ‘lil caught up with… Well,” he gestures toward you, and you watch as Cam’s mom’s eyes light up at the sight of your bump.

“Hi, Mrs. Cade,” you wave, sheepishly.

“Oh, call me Yvette, girl,” she tells you, voice warm and honeyed, wrapping you up in a big hug. You can see where Cam gets his touchiness from. She pulls back and smiles at you, her mouth lilting up just like Cam’s. “My god, baby, look atch you! Just a round and glowing. Goodness! Come in, come in. I made sweet tea.”

Inside, Cam’s half-brother was already there, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer. You sat at the table while Cam stood behind your chair, one hand on your shoulder. You tell her about the pregnancy yourself, hand dropping low on your stomach to cradle the bump, while Cam fills her in on how the season’s been going.

“A grandbaby,” she whispers, stars in hers. “After everything with your dad, Cam… this is a blessing.” She squeezes your hand. “You’re family now. Whatever you need, you call me. Or his brother. We’ve got you.”

Cam’s half-brother nods. “Congrats. Seriously.”

Cam kisses the top of your head right there in front of them, and you lean into it, warmth blooming throughout you.

On the drive back, Cam lets you know that he told his team about your pregnancy.

“They were hyped at first,” he says. “Slapping my back, cracking jokes about me being a dad. Then they started asking me about the draft, about what I’d tell the press. I told them I didn't know, honestly.” He rubs a hand over the lower half of his face, checking his mirrors before switching lanes.

“Coach pulled me aside after,” he continues, “and said congratulations, but also reminded me the league doesn’t stop for personal shit. Gotta keep the focus.”

You hum, looking for an appropriate response. You really put Cam in a tight spot. He’ll appreciate it in time, you’re sure, but, still.

“You’re still their star,” you say, reaching for his hand. “They’ll get used to it.”

But you couldn’t get used to it. He missed the first blood draw because an agent meeting ran long. When he called afterward he sounded genuinely sorry, promising he’d make the next one. You told him it was okay. You didn’t tell him how cold the clinic chair had felt, or how the nurse had asked twice if the father was involved.

Your nausea got a thousand times worse before it started to get better. Some mornings you woke up gagging before your eyes were even open, and Cam was already gone, off to an early flight, film session, or a workout with some visiting scout. You’d text him when the worst passed. He always replied, but the replies came later and later.

Domestic life tried to settle in around the edges. He started leaving his hoodie on the back of your chair, his protein powder next to your cereal, his spare cleats by the door. Some nights he’d cook, leaving the window open and the door cracked, then pull you onto the couch to watch film with him, his hand resting on your bump like it belonged there. You’d fall asleep against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, telling yourself the small cracks didn’t matter.

But, they did, and they were growing wider.

Subway Crew🥖🩷 nat 🐭: Why did I just see Cameron Cade yapping up a storm with some girl jaelyn : omg yeaa girl with a yaki middle part 1b buss down?? nat 🐭: Described to a T jaelyn: pardon my french nd all but they used to smash sometimes before homegirl got pregnant you: was it jasmine?? you: did it seem. overly friendly??? jaelyn: nah jasmines blonde rn nat 🐭: …Kinda, yeah nat 🐭: [Attatchment: Three Images]

That evening, when Cameron got home, there was a fire in your chest. You watched as he dropped his bag by the door, you stayed stiff and unmoving as he pulled you into a hug, his hand automatically settling on bump.

“Why the fuck did my manager tell me she saw you with some bitch earlier today?” you asked, voice low and sharp, bundled up in his arms like a caged animal. “That why you weren’t at my checkup?”

Cam freezes, for for half a second, before letting out a short, disbelieving chuckle as he pulls back. “Niggas can’t even get in the house proper before being interrogated, now, huh?”

“Don’t play with me right now, Cameron” You step out of his hold, crossing your arms over your bump. “She sent photos, Cam! I know that bald, high yellow scalp anywhere, bitch, so don’t try and claim it wasn’t you eye fucking that girl in front of the whole campus!”

Cam froze mid-step, his hand still half-raised like he’d been about to reach for you again. For a second his face went blank, then his jaw tightened and that familiar I didn’t do anything wrong look he always throws on during fights with you fixed itself on his face, even as his eyes scan the room wildly, looking for some lie to peddle to you.

“You got your manager running recon on me now? That’s wild.” He let out a short, dry laugh. “It wasn’t like that, man. It’s not that serious. Chill out.”

Your eyes widen, anger taking over your whole being. He always manages to push the just-right buttons to piss you the fuck off. “Not that serious? So it wouldn’t be that serious if it was me with some random nigga, right, that’s what you saying? If I was laughing it up with some dude while you were sitting alone at the doctor waiting on our baby, that shit would get real serious real quick, wouldn’t it, Cam?”

He rubs the back of his neck, shifting his weight, clearly buying time. “Look, like I told you, it wasn’t like that,” he says, voice low and studded with an edge of bullheaded stubbornness. “Sure, I was out there talking to her for a minute. She came up to me after the workout, we chopped it up real quick. That’s it. Ain’t nobody was ‘eye-fucking’ anybody. Stop listening to that goofy ass manager of yours. Wasn’t you supposed to quit by now, anyway?”

“Right, ok. So, what I’m hearing is, you can worry about my job and you can hang out with groupies that don’t even know your middle name, but you can’t go to an appointment to see your baby, and you can’t tell me who you missed it for.”

Cam exhales sharply. “Oh, my god, bro, I told you the trainer session ran long. I texted you I was sorry. And yeah, she was there, but we barely talked. She asked about the draft, that’s it. I didn’t plan that shit.”

Your shoulders sag. You were so sick of this cycle with him. You knew exactly how the rest of this fight would go. He would deny, deny, deny, until you blew up at him. He’d say that the two of you need space, taking his chance to escape accountability, and you wouldn’t hear from him again for atleast a week. It’s just not worth it, not anymore. You let out a long, drained breath, your anger fizzling into something flat and defeated.

“Whatever, Cam,” you mutter, voice thin and ready. “Just… whatever.”

You turn away from him, one hand resting on your bump, and head toward the bedroom without another word. You were just so tired of this same old routine.

You made it to the bed before the tears really hit. They came slow at first, then faster, hot and silent as you curled onto your side with both arms wrapped around your bump. The baby kept moving, little rolls and kicks like it could sense the storm that had just passed through the apartment. You pressed your face into the pillow, trying to muffle the quiet sobs, but they kept slipping out anyway.

A few minutes later you hear the front door open and then close with a soft click.

Your stomach twists. Of course. He was doing what he always did, disappearing. Leaving you here alone while he went off to clear his head or answer whatever text had been waiting for him. The last time he did this, it took nine days for him to come back. Nine days of waiting and begging and texting and calling. It was horrible. The same day he came back, you put your plan to keep him in motion. You were never going to let that happen to you again. And, yet…

Time dragged. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, tears drying sticky on your cheeks, when you heard the front door open again. You could hear Cameron walk to the bedroom door, his footsteps hesitant as he padded down the hallway.

When he finally opens the door, you don’t look up or say anything to him. You stay curled on your side, arms wrapped around your bump, eyes swollen and red. He doesn’t say much of anything anything, either. Instead, you hear the rustle of a plastic bag as he sits it on the nightstand, and then you feel the mattress dip as he sat on the edge of the bed, his back against your knees.

“I… got you some stuff,” he says, voice rough and uncertain. “Some flowers. I put those on the table. And, they’re fake, ‘cus I know you can’t stand the smell of real ones. Umm. I got you some croutons and ranch from the campus Pizza Hut, with a diet Dr. Pepper, uh, and some of those caramel candies you like.”

You stay quiet, but you can feel him watching you. After a long pause, he reaches into the bag and pulls out the small salad bowl, holding it and a plastic spoon out like an offering

“I know it doesn’t fix shit,” Cameron mutters, picking at his nails. “I just… I hated leaving you like that. I felt like an asshole the whole time I was gone. So I drove around for a bit and got the stuff I know you like.”

You finally turn your head enough to look at him. You probably look a mess. Your eyes are puffy, cheeks still damp with tears. Cam looks uncomfortable, shoulders tense, like he’s got to do something to fix it but can’t quite figure out what. He sets the salad bowl on the nightstand within easy reach, then rubs the back of his neck.

“I kept thinking about that heartbeat from the ultrasound,” he says, after you still don’t offer up a response.. “How fast it was. How real it sounded. And then I started worrying… what if I’m not cut out for this? What if I’m gone all the time with the league and I miss their first steps or their first words? What if I turn out to be the kind of dad who’s never really there?”

You swallow hard, tears threatening again. You schemed and plotted to get him here before he was even ready, how could you expect to do everything right first try? He’s no Superman.

“I’m scared too,” you admit quietly. “What if something happens during labour? What if I go crazy after childbirth? What if I’m a horrible mother and they grow up to hate me? What if we both mess this up and they end up feeling like we never wanted them?”

Cam shifts, his hand finding your bump, thumb stroking his usual slow, careful circles.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he tells you. “I keep picturing them growing up and realising their dad is always off doing something else, too focused on the league to be present. I don’t want her to feel like they come second, or that their dad’s a fuck up, or something.”

You nod, voice small, mouth running before you can get your brain to stop it. “I keep worrying that you’ll leave me. And, like, slowly, more and more, you’ll pull away until it’s just me and the baby.”

Cam goes still, his hand pausing on your bump mid-circle. For a second he just stares at you, eyes wide like you’d slapped him. Then he lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping as the guilt hits him square in the chest.

“You really think I’d do that?” He asks, his voice meek in way you’ve never heard before.

You shrug. You don’t want to say that you think he could, but well.

“God,” he breaths out, shaking his head slowly. “I know I been fucking up. The missed appointments, the late nights, the way I get caught up with the draft shit… But leaving you? Leaving y’all? That ain’t me. Atleast, I don’t want it to be me.”

He resumes his circles on your bump, thumb stroking the curve like he’s trying to calm himself down. He swallows hard, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“I’m not perfect. I’m gonna mess up again. But I’m not trying to pull away. I’m trying to figure out how to be the man you and this baby need. Just… give me a little time to get it right. Please.”

Your breath catches at the raw vulnerability in his voice, at his dedication to you. The fear is still there, of course, humming under your skin, but so is something warmer, something that flares hot and needy when his eyes lock on yours, dark and desperate and full of promise.

You reach up, fingers sliding into the hair he’s started to let grow out at the nape of his neck, and tug him down until his forehead rests against yours. “Then show me,” you whisper, voice taking on a smooth, sensual tone. “Show me you’re not pulling away. Right now.”

Cam’s exhale is rough, almost a groan. His hand stills on your bump for half a second before it slides lower, palm spreading wide over the swell of it like he’s claiming every inch. “Yeah?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “You want me to prove it?”

You nod, and that’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, hungry and a little clumsy with relief. The kiss deepens fast, tongues sliding hot and wet, as one of his big hands slides up to cup the back of your head. You arch into him and he makes this low, wrecked sound in his throat that shoots straight between your legs.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes against your mouth, shifting so he can kiss down your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just under your ear. “Love you like this. Love touching you. Love making you feel good.”His hand slips under the hem of your oversized shirt (his shirt, actually) and palms your bare belly again, skin on skin, before sliding higher to cup one heavy, aching breast.

His thumb circles your nipple the same lazy rhythm he’d been using on your bump, and you whimper, hips twitching. “Cam—”

“I got you,” he promises, voice gravel-rough.

He helps you sit up just enough to tug the shirt off over your head, then his own follows, revealing the hard lines of his chest and the faint trail of hair leading down into his sweats. His eyes drag over you, your swollen tits, the dark line running down the middle of your belly, the way your thighs press together like you’re already soaked, and the hunger in them makes your cunt clench.

He eases you back against the pillows, careful, always so fucking careful, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties. “Lift up for me, beautiful.” You do, and he peels them down your thighs, groaning when he sees how wet you already are. “Shit. All this for me?”

You don’t get the chance to answer. He settles between your spread legs, one of your thighs hooked over his shoulder, and drags his tongue up your slit in one slow, filthy stripe. Your back arches hard, a broken moan tearing out of you as he licks into you with long, deep strokes that curl around your clit before he sucks it between his lips. Two thick fingers push inside you easy, curling just right, and he doesn’t stop even when your hands fist in his hair and your hips start grinding against his face.

“Cam—oh god—don’t stop—”He hums against you, the vibration making you shake, and keeps working you open with his mouth and fingers until your thighs are trembling and the pressure in your belly coils tighter and tighter. When you cum it hits you hard, your walls clenching around his fingers, a sharp cry spilling from your lips as pleasure crashes through you in hot waves.

He doesn’t pull away until you’re panting and boneless, then he’s kissing up your body, lips brushing your belly reverently on the way. “Still with me?” he asks, voice wrecked, lips shiny with you.

You nod, reaching for him, and he lets you push his sweats down just enough to free his cock, and you salivate at the sight, at how thick and heavy it, how it’s already leaking at the tip. He strokes himself once, twice, eyes locked on your face.

“Tell me how you want it, pretty,” he says, leaning down to kiss you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. “Slow? Gentle? Hmm?”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Both,” you breathe. “Just—inside me. Please.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. Cam rolls you carefully onto your side, spooning up behind you, one arm wrapped around to cradle your belly while the other hooks under your knee, spreading you open.

The head of his cock nudges at your entrance, slick and hot, and then he’s pushing in with a slow, thick slide, his length stretching you open until he’s buried to the hilt with a guttural groan. “Fuck… so tight, baby. So fucking perfect.”

He starts moving, deep and steady, hips rolling against your ass in a deliberate rhythm, every thrust pressing him right against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. His mouth latches onto the curve of your neck, sucking a mark there like he wants everyone to know you’re his.

“You feel that?” he pants against your skin, voice low and filthy. “That’s me not going anywhere. That’s me right here.” Cam’s hand presses down firm on the tight curve of your belly, right over where his cock is buried deep, and he groans low as he rocks his hips so you both feel it as his thrusts get a little harder, a little faster, the wet slap of skin filling the room. “Gonna fill you up again just like this. Remind you every damn day if I have to.”

You moan his name, pushing back into every thrust. When his fingers find your clit again, you cum a second time with a loud, broken cry, your back bowing in a near perfect C, your cunt clenching around him so hard his rhythm stutters.

Cam buries his face in your neck, groaning deep as he follows you over the edge, hips jerking as he spills hot and thick inside you, cock pulsing with every spurt. He doesn’t pull out right away, just holds you close, still buried deep. “Never leaving,” he whispers against your damp skin, pressing a soft kiss there. “Not you. Not the baby. Not ever.”

Part of her wants to ask who the hell Tommy thinks he is. Instead she gives him a tight smile, because the answer to that is “Buck’s husband” apparently.

Jesus.

She takes in Tommy’s living room while she waits. The decor is masculine--hardwood floors, earth tones, and art prints of vintage firefighting equipment. Which just makes the kitchen play set in one corner contrast all the more sharply. Maddie drifts over to inspect it closer—it looks like the fancy six hundred dollar one Buck has been drooling over, complete with an array of toy food. Maddie picks up watermelon slice at random—it’s two pieces held together with velcro, so it can be “chopped” in half with one of the little toy knives.

Maddie is concentrating so hard that she jumps when Buck says her name. She straightens and turns to face him. 

He’s wearing work clothes, an old tee shirt with a dark v-shape of sweat at the neckline, and his face is as shuttered as Tommy’s was.

“Where’s your wedding ring?” Maddie asks. She had no idea she was going to say it until the words were out.

Buck wordlessly tugs on a chain around his neck until he pulls out a simple gold band that matches the one she saw on Tommy’s finger.

(She’s noticed that chain around his neck before today, but she can’t remember when he started wearing it.)

“What are you doing here?” Buck asks.

“I forgot you changed your sessions to Thursdays,” Maddie says, “I showed up to get Theo, and…”

“And they told you Tommy picked him up,” Buck says, looking away from her. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Buck,” Maddie says, searching for words, “What the hell is going on?”

That muscle in Buck’s jaw twitches again, and when he turns back to Maddie he looks defiant, “I got married.”

“When?”

“Three weeks ago,” Buck says, shoulders raising defensively.

“To Tommy? Why?”

“Lockwood Academy,” Buck says, then at her confused expression explains, “It’s a private elementary school that’s one of the best in the country for students with ADHD and other learning disabilities. A lot of emphasis on STEM, on learning by doing instead of just sitting and listening to a teacher. Anyway, the yearly tuition is about what I’m paying in rent, and Tommy owns this place free and clear.”

“I’m sorry,” Maddie says, blinking, “Are you telling me you married someone for his house?”

“No,” Buck snaps, “I married him because I love him and he’s the only person I want to spend the rest of my life with. But you wouldn’t believe that if I said it, so I went with the practical benefits.”

Maddie realizes then that Buck isn’t defiant or defensive, he is utterly and completely furious. At her.

(She’s hit with a memory from years ago, sitting across from her parents for the first time in years. Buck seems fine, Margaret said, and Maddie responded with, He’s good at that. Seeming fine.)

Maddie opens her mouth and closes it again. She searches for a rejoinder, because he’s right. She doesn’t think he really loves Tommy. Maybe he thinks he does, maybe he thinks he should, but he doesn’t really know Tommy, not well enough to get married, to legally bind himself and his son to him. 

“Exactly,” Buck says, grinning with all his teeth, like he read her mind.