#obx5

Rafe had already told you to go home. Instead, you followed him onto the dock.

"Fuck," he runs his hand over his buzzed head.

Then he turns to you, low and calculated. "I said go home."

You stand with your back casually leaning against a thick, wooden post. Splinters poke into your t-shirt.

"No."

Rafe moves swiftly towards you. "Go home," he emphasizes, one last time.

"I'm not leaving."

Rafe takes a slow step forward. It's deliberate this time, not sudden. The heat radiating off of him makes your pulse skip.

You take notice of the way his jaw flexes as he grits his teeth together before your gaze falls to his fingers as he flexes them.

“Careful,” he says, voice low. “Might start to think you actually want me.” He’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him.

You don't move away, looking up at him through your lashes. The gaze is steady, letting a hint of challenge linger.

“And what if I do?”

Rafe lets out a bitter laugh before he goes still, his eyes flick to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

Without hesitation, his hand comes up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, firm and deliberate. A rough exhale escapes him before his fingers start to drop, tracing the curve of your neck before resting there, claiming the space between you.

“You have no idea what you’re saying, sweetheart.”

His head twitches to the left. Your gaze stays locked on his, unflinching.

"I know exactly what I'm saying," you whisper, letting the words hang.

Once the words register, Rafe's grip tightens just slightly around your neck, the skin beneath his fingers lightening. His other hand slides to your lower back, pressing you closer and drawing you into his space. His breath is shallow, rough.

Your bodies are pressed together now, and you release a small breath from your chest. The hand that was once pressed against your back now travels to the front of you, resting along the hemline of your skirt.

Rafe's eyes bore into you, eyes flickering at the rise and fall of your chest. His pupils are dilated, and his lips parted, as his hands still rest around your neck, pressing into your pulse.

He can feel it quicken under his fingertips as he moves his free hand lower, his fingers find the space in between your legs, sliding underneath the gentle fabric. His digits dance along the skin of your inner thigh, causing your breath to tremble.

He watches you carefully as your eyes grow a little wider, your hips gravitating towards him like a magnet. His fingers flex around your neck at this movement, causing your jaw to go slack before slightly loosening his grip. The corner of his mouth twitches upward at your response as his fingers trail along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"We… shouldn't," you argue, half-heartedly. You look at the dimly lit surroundings. "People could-'

He cuts you off.

"Let them," he murmured. His voice was like velvet.

Your breath hitches as he drags his fingers up your thigh to land on the soft cotton of your damp underwear, only making clear how badly you've been craving his touch. His grin turns dangerous at this realization, pausing before he presses in just slightly. Another soft breath escapes your lips.

Rafe hums in approval as he ducks down to press his forehead up against yours now.

"You want me to stop?"

Rafe's fingers press into the cotton a little more, winning a soft whimper from you. You shake your head. He looks at you intently, tongue in cheek, while his hand travels up from your neck, his thumb grazing along your bottom lip and moving to cup your face. His grip is rougher now.

"Use your words," his voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Don't stop," you inhale.

His fingers twitch at your confirmation, sliding his hand beneath the fabric of your underwear. The calloused pads of his fingers graze slightly over your sensitive skin. Another soft breath leaves your chest as his fingers find themselves between your folds, his tongue rolls over his bottom lip, and his gaze is still locked on yours. They rest there for a moment, not moving.

Your hips shift just a fraction, desperate for movement. He tuts, pulling his fingers out.

"Rafe," your voice is breathy at the loss of his touch.

He tilts his head forward a little, pausing as your lips barely touch each other. Every breath you take is another's, and you start to feel dizzy with want.

"Please," you whimper.

Hearing you beg causes his mouth to turn up into a smirk. His fingers slip into your slick again. You shudder, knees trembling beneath you. His free hand is still tight around your face.

His fingers press firmer, earning a breathy moan from you. He starts to draw lazy circles around your clit, watching your flushed face as he works you. Your eyes land on his face, coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

Rafe's eyes are dark, and you can feel his hot breath over your lips. "You sound so fucking pretty, sweetheart." His voice is low and gravelly.

His hand moves back down to your neck, squeezing it. You can hear static in your ears as your vision starts to blur, pleasure building up inside you and threatening to overflow. Each lazy circle drawn by Rafe ties the knot in your stomach tighter.

Rafe closes the distance between the two of you, brushing his lips against yours before rolling his tongue over yours. He groans into your mouth, sending a vibration through your chest, landing square in your core.

Electricity flows through your veins. Your head starts to buzz as pleasure ripples through you, gasping for air.

Rafe pulls away, watching intently as your lashes flutter and your head tips back, another soft moan leaving your body as you're on the verge of coming apart beneath him.

His hand moves, plunging two fingers inside of you, curling them ever so slightly. The chill from his metal rings are a welcome sensation, ridges pushing against your walls. He ducks his head down, teeth grazing your slack jaw as he fucks you with his fingers.

The rise and fall of your chest is no longer rhythmic, as the flush travels from your cheeks up to your ears and down to your chest.

"R-Rafe I-" you stutter out, legs starting to vibrate.

Rafe growls low at the sound of his name on your pretty lips. The fingers around your neck dig into your skin as his body tenses, trying to hold himself back.

"Say it again," he demands, voice rough. His middle and index fingers are deep inside you as the heel of his hand grazes your swollen clit. Each small brush causes your hips to jerk forward, sending shockwaves through your body. His fingers work faster as your back arches towards him, your full body coils as his name spills from your lips with a mix of obscenities.

Fire pools in your abdomen as your walls clench around Rafe's fingers, knees buckling beneath you. Rafe holds you up, his hand falling from your neck to your waist. His lips crush against yours, working you through your high as your body trembles in his grasp.

He pulls his hand out from under your skirt. Your hands are gripping his shoulders as he stares down at you. He takes in your flushed cheeks and your dazed expression before he swoops down again, his lips capturing yours in another kiss.

Rafe's grip on you tightens as he deepens the kiss, swallowing every whimper you make.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are just hovering over yours - his breath is hot and uneven. "Fucking perfect," he murmurs, voice wrecked, before dragging you back in for more.

♡ a/n: still at the v beginning of my smut writing journey [if that’s what we wanna call it] so feedback is appreciated! did my best, hope you like xo

There are parts of this you’d never admit out loud. Not because they’re bad, but because people wouldn’t understand. The swollen feet, the aching joints, the way your nose changed just enough to throw you off when you caught your reflection. The acne that showed up like clockwork. All the things people complain about. And still, you’d do it again. You would take all of it again without hesitation. Even if, some nights, you wish you could set your belly down somewhere safe and pick it back up in the morning.

A face mask dries slowly against your skin as you lift your glass, taking a sip of cucumber water. Your hair is wrapped, your muscles are loose, and the soft hum of classical music fills the room. For once, your mind isn’t racing. You’re not thinking about schedules or plans or what comes next. You’re just… here.

Then the music cuts out.

The sudden ringtone feels louder than it should, sharp against the quiet. You open your eyes, lifting your head from the rolled towel behind your neck, already annoyed. You reach for your phone, expecting Becca or one of the pogues.

Instead, you freeze for a second. Rafe. FaceTiming you.

You frown slightly. He doesn’t usually FaceTime. It’s always a text, or a quick call if it’s about something specific since the two of you split. Never this. You prop the phone on the stool beside the tub and swipe to answer, not bothering to fix the angle. The camera points straight up at your ceiling.

“Hey, Rafe,” you say, voice easy as you lift one leg from the water, watching the soap slide down your skin.

“Hey… where are you?”

You glance over the edge of the tub, catching a partial view of his face on the screen. He’s leaning in, squinting slightly like he’s trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

“The tub,” you answer.

“Oh.” He pulls back, and the camera shifts enough for you to see more of him. He’s in his kitchen, one hand braced against the counter as he opens the fridge with the other. “Cool.”

You raise a brow, reaching for your loofah and dragging it lazily across your stomach. “What’s up?”

There’s a slight pause while he stares into the fridge like the answer might be in there. “You remember that pasta you made,” he says, “when you told me you were pregnant?”

You blink, thinking for a second. “The Cajun shrimp pasta?”

“Yeah. That one.”

You hum softly, rinsing the loofah and setting it aside. “I remember. What about it?”

“I’ve been craving it like hell,” he admits, closing the fridge with a soft thud. “Can you send me the ingredients or something?”

You tilt your head back against the tub, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re calling me… from your kitchen… to ask for a grocery list?”

“I’m resourceful,” he says dryly.

“You’re lazy,” you correct.

He huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his hair. “Same difference.”

You shift slightly in the water, grabbing your phone and angling it just enough so you can see him better. “You don’t even cook like that.”

“I’m trying,” he says, and there’s that word again. Trying. “Figured I’d start with something I actually want to eat.”

You study him for a second. He looks normal. Relaxed. Not forcing anything.

“You’re not gonna make it right,” you tell him.

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. “Wow. No faith.”

“None,” you say, taking another sip of your water. “You’re gonna call me halfway through asking what Cajun seasoning is.”

“I know what Cajun seasoning is,” he says, mildly offended.

“Do you?”

“…Yeah.”

You wait.

He exhales. “Okay, I’ll Google it.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Rafe.”

“What?”

You hesitate for half a second, then sigh, already knowing you’re about to make this more complicated than it needs to be. “Just come over tomorrow,” you say. “I’ll show you.”

There’s a brief pause on his end, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “It’s easier than explaining it over the phone.”

He nods slowly, something softer settling into his expression. “Alright. Tomorrow.”

You set your phone back down, letting your head rest against the towel again. “Don’t show up empty-handed.”

He smirks. “I literally just asked you for the ingredients.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Start there.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and for a second neither of you says anything. It’s not awkward. Just… easy.

“I’ll text you,” he says after a moment.

“Okay.”

He lingers like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. “Bye,” he adds instead.

“Bye.” The call ends, and the bathroom falls quiet again.

The music doesn’t come back on right away. You stare at the ceiling for a second, your hand drifting back to your stomach, thumb brushing slow circles over your skin. Tomorrow. You sink a little deeper into the water, exhaling softly.

It’s just cooking. Nothing more.

-

You wake slowly, the kind of slow that comes from a full night’s sleep and nowhere urgent to be. Sunlight filters through your curtains, softer than the day before, warming the room just enough to make it hard to move. For a moment, you stay where you are, one hand resting over your stomach, letting yourself exist without thinking too far ahead.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, squinting at the screen as you unlock it.

Rafe: What time were you thinking?

Your brows lift slightly as you read it, your thumb hovering for a second before it clicks. Cooking. You push yourself up against the headboard, adjusting the pillow behind you as you type back.

You: Later. Like 7?

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Rafe: Yeah that works. I’ll grab everything.

You stare at the message for a second, then type back.

You: Don’t forget anything lol

Rafe: I won’t.

You huff a quiet laugh and let your phone fall back onto your chest for a moment. Your hand drifts down to your stomach, thumb tracing slow circles.

“Seven,” you murmur under your breath. There’s time. Your phone buzzes again before you can move. You glance down, expecting another message from him, but instead you see JJ’s name lighting up the screen. You frown and answer, bringing the phone to your ear as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. “What?” you say, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Get dressed,” JJ says immediately.

You blink. “Good morning to you too.”

“Yeah, yeah, morning,” he says quickly. “Get dressed and come to Poguelandia.”

You rub your face with your free hand, already tired. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is when I’m the one saying it,” he shoots back.

You push yourself to your feet and start toward the bathroom. “I’m not coming over there just because you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored,” he says, sounding offended. “We’re busy.”

“With what?”

There’s a pause. “Stuff.”

You stop in the doorway, narrowing your eyes slightly. “JJ.”

“Just come,” he says, a little more serious now. “Bring yourself. That’s all you need.”

You hesitate, glancing back toward your bed where your alarm clock still rests, Rafe’s messages fresh in your mind. Seven. You have time.

“What time?” you ask.

“Now.”

You let out a short laugh. “You’re insane.”

“And you love me,” he says easily.

You shake your head, stepping into the bathroom and turning on the sink. “I’ll think about it.”

“No, don’t think about it. Just get in your car.”

“JJ—”

“Thirty minutes,” he cuts in. “If you’re not here, I’m coming to get you.”

“You’re not coming to get me.”

“Watch me.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “See you soon.”

The call ends before you can argue again. You lower your phone slowly, staring at the screen for a moment before setting it down on the counter. Then you sigh and reach for your toothbrush. “Thirty minutes,” you mutter. Your hand drifts back to your stomach as you turn toward the mirror, rubbing lightly over the curve. “This better not be stupid.”

Even as you say it, you’re already shifting your day around in your head, already deciding what to wear, already planning how long you’ll stay. Seven. You’ve got time.

After showering and settling on a simple powder blue maxi dress with white flip-flops, you head downstairs with your phone and purse in hand. The weather is already warm, the kind of heat that settles in early and doesn’t let up, so you don’t bother overthinking your outfit. You make yourself a quick piece of toast even though you know it won’t do much for you or the baby, but it’s enough to hold you over for now. You grab your keys, lock the door behind you, and step outside, holding the toast between your teeth as you walk to your car.

On the drive over, you find yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you had a boat. It would have been the perfect day to take the water instead of driving through the Cut. Moments like this make you consider getting a bigger place altogether, somewhere with enough room for everyone, somewhere the Pogues could just stay without thinking twice. Not that they would. You know they’re happy where they are. Still, the thought lingers longer than you expect.

When you pull into the usual spot, you flip down the mirror and run your fingers through your hair, debating for a second before deciding it’s too hot to leave it down. You reach into the dash, digging around until you find a hair tie, and twist your hair into a loose, low bun. It’s quick, a little messy, but it works.

You step out of the car, lock it, and adjust your purse on your shoulder as you walk toward Poguelandia.

“Hello? JJ?” you call out as you step inside, moving cautiously.

“Surprise!”

All six of them jump out at once from different corners, and you nearly drop everything in your hands. Your heart jumps into your throat as you instinctively grab your chest, eyes wide. It takes a second for your brain to catch up, for the shock to settle into recognition, and then you see it. Pink balloons. Decorations strung across the space. A handmade sign that reads “Baby Y/L/N”.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, leaning back against the nearest counter as you try to steady yourself. “Jesus. You guys.”

You glare toward the boys, but there’s no real bite behind it.

Sarah is the first to reach you, pulling you into a hug. “How many months are you now?” she asks as she pulls back, her hands immediately finding your belly.

“Seven months yesterday,” you say with a small smile.

“Baby is gonna be stunning,” Cleo adds as she wraps you in a hug next.

“Not as stunning as you,” you shoot back, winking, which earns a laugh.

Kie hugs you after that, a little tighter, a little longer. “She’s gonna be so loved.”

That one hits you harder than the others. Your throat tightens before you can stop it, and for a second you just nod, blinking it away because she’s right. With people like this around, there’s no question about it.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “She is.” You turn toward the boys, crossing your arms loosely. “And by the way… thank you guys. This is really sweet. But just so you know… she’s going to be a Cameron.”

“I don’t know,” JJ says immediately. “I like Y/L/N better.”

“Agreed,” Pope adds. You roll your eyes, smiling as John B pulls you into a side hug.

You ease out of John B’s side hug, still smiling as you take everything in again, this time slower. The decorations are a little crooked, the balloons not perfectly spaced, the sign slightly uneven, but it feels warm in a way that’s hard to explain. Lived in. Thoughtful. You can tell they did this themselves.

“You guys really did all this?” you ask, glancing around.

“Yeah,” Kie says, brushing her hands together like she’s proud of it. “Don’t look too closely at anything. It’s all a little… improvised.”

“It looks good,” you say honestly, reaching out to adjust one of the ribbons that’s barely hanging on. “Better than good.”

JJ claps his hands once, already moving past the sentimental part. “Alright, enough emotions. We’ve got food, we’ve got games, and Pope made a schedule.”

Pope lifts a finger immediately. “It’s not a schedule. It’s just a general structure so things don’t fall apart.”

“They’re going to fall apart,” JJ says.

“They are not,” Pope argues.

“They already are,” John B adds, grabbing a chip from the table and eating it mid-conversation.

You laugh under your breath, moving toward the table to see what they’ve set up. There’s a mix of things that clearly didn’t come from the same place. A couple store-bought trays, some homemade dishes that actually look really good, and a pile of snacks that feel very on-brand for them. “You guys really went all out,” you say, picking up a strawberry and taking a bite.

“We had to,” Sarah says. “We missed the first one.”

You glance at her briefly, catching the way she says it lightly, but you can tell there’s a small part of her that means it. You swallow and nod.

“Well, this one counts more,” you say, and you mean it.

JJ points at you. “Exactly. That one was fancy. This one has personality.”

“And slightly expired chips,” Pope mutters under his breath.

“They’re not expired,” JJ snaps back. “They’re just… seasoned by time.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as you move around the space. Someone’s set up a few chairs in a loose circle, and there’s a small table off to the side with what looks like game materials thrown together at the last minute.

“What kind of games are we talking about?” you ask cautiously.

“The best kind,” JJ says.

“The worst kind,” Kie corrects.

Pope steps forward, holding up a piece of paper. “We have a few options. Baby trivia, guessing the due date, and-”

“Absolutely not,” you cut in immediately, already backing up.

“You didn’t even hear the last one,” he says.

“I don’t need to,” you reply.

Cleo laughs, leaning against the table. “We’re doing at least one. You don’t get to escape everything.”

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Fine. One. And then I’m eating everything in sight.”

“Deal,” John B says, already reaching for more food.

You end up pulling you into a game anyway, something simple that quickly turns into chaos. JJ keeps changing answers just to mess with Pope, who’s trying to keep track of everything and failing. Sarah and Kie are actually trying, Cleo is half-participating, half-commenting, and John B is more interested in the snacks than anything else. You sit there in the middle of it, laughing harder than you have in a while, one hand resting over your stomach without even thinking about it. The noise, the arguing, the constant talking over each other- it should feel overwhelming, but it doesn’t. It feels familiar.

Easy.

At some point, you step back from it, just for a second, leaning against the edge of the table as you watch them. JJ is mid-argument, Pope is correcting him for the third time, and Sarah is laughing so hard she can barely breathe. It’s messy. It’s loud. Nothing about it is perfect. And still, your chest feels full in a way the other shower didn’t quite reach. Not because that one wasn’t good. It was. Thoughtful. Put together. Careful. This one just feels like you.

Kie nudges your arm lightly. “You okay?”

You blink, realizing you’ve been staring. “Yeah,” you say, smiling as you look back at her. “I’m good.”

She studies you for a second, then nods like she believes you. “Good,” she says. “Because we’re about to eat again.”

You laugh, pushing yourself off the table and moving back toward them. “Thank God,” you say.

-

After a while, someone -Pope, of course- decides it’s time to move on to gifts before everything gets too out of hand. They clear a space on the table, pushing plates and cups to the side, and you’re guided into a chair like this is something official.

“Alright,” Pope says, clapping his hands together once. “Let’s stay organized.”

“No one’s staying organized,” JJ mutters, dropping onto the arm of the couch.

“You can at least try,” Pope shoots back.

You laugh quietly as Sarah hands you the first bag. It’s a little wrinkled, the tissue paper already halfway falling out, but when you reach inside and pull out a tiny onesie, your chest tightens. It’s soft, pale pink, with a small embroidered sun stitched near the collar.

“Oh my God,” you say, smiling as you hold it up. “This is so cute.”

“Cleo picked that one,” Sarah says.

You glance over at her. “You have good taste.”

“I know,” she replies easily, but there’s a small smile there.

The next gift is from Kie, something more practical- baby blankets, neatly folded, in soft neutral colors. Then Pope gives you a set of baby books, already labeled in a way that makes you shake your head.

“You’ve been planning this,” you say.

“I like to be prepared,” he answers.

JJ’s gift comes last, and he hands it to you with a look that already makes you suspicious. “If this is a joke-”

“It’s not a joke,” he says, though he’s already smiling. You open it carefully, peeling back the paper to reveal a tiny pair of sneakers. You pause. They’re small, barely the size of your palm, laces already tied.

“They’re for when she learns how to run away from you,” JJ says.

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers brushing over them. “She’s not running anywhere.”

“Everyone runs eventually,” he shrugs.

You look down at the shoes for a second longer before setting them carefully with the rest of the gifts. “Thank you,” you say, quieter this time.

They brush it off like it’s nothing, like it wasn’t a big deal to them, but you can feel it anyway. Time slips by without you noticing. There’s more food, more talking, more laughter layered over everything, and before you realize it, the light outside has shifted. The air feels heavier, warmer in a different way.

“Wait,” you say suddenly, glancing toward the window. “What time is it?”

John B checks his phone. “Like… eight.”

Your stomach drops. Eight.

“Shit,” you breathe, already pushing yourself up from the chair.

“What?” Kie asks, watching you.

“I-” you stop, pressing a hand briefly to your stomach as you try to catch up with your own thoughts. “I forgot I had plans with someone.”

“With who?” JJ asks.

You’re already moving, grabbing your purse from the table. “Rafe.” That gets their attention. “He was supposed to come over,” you add quickly, already heading toward the door. “We were going to cook and I- I completely forgot.”

“Wow,” JJ says. “That’s cold.”

“Shut up,” you throw over your shoulder, but there’s no heat in it, just urgency. You turn back for half a second, looking at all of them, the decorations, the half-cleaned mess of plates and wrapping paper.

“Thank you,” you say again, more serious now. “All of you. This was… really, really nice.”

“You don’t have to rush,” Sarah says gently.

“I do,” you shake your head, already stepping backward toward the door. “I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

“Drive safe,” Pope calls after you.

“And text us,” Kie adds.

“Yeah, yeah,” JJ says. “Don’t forget about us now that you’ve got dinner dates.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you push the door open. “Goodbye,” you call out, already halfway out.

The air outside hits you immediately, warmer now, heavier with the start of night. You hurry to your car, keys already in your hand, your mind racing. Eight. You slide into the driver’s seat, your hand instinctively dropping to your stomach as you start the engine.

“Okay,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything. Then you pull out, heading home faster than you planned.

-

When you pull into the driveway, you ease the car over to the right side, your headlights briefly washing over the familiar shape of Rafe’s car parked on the left. It’s off, sitting there quietly like it’s been waiting.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

You grab your keys and step out quickly, the evening air cooler now, brushing against your bare arms as you circle around to the driver’s side of his car. You lean down just enough to see inside. He’s asleep.

The seat is reclined slightly, not all the way, just enough to make it comfortable. His head is tipped back, brows faintly drawn together the way they always are when he’s in a deep sleep. His arms are crossed over his chest, black t-shirt stretched slightly across his shoulders, beige shorts low on his hips. The passenger seat is crowded with grocery bags, one of them tipped just enough for you to see a carton of something and a bundle of produce.

You pause for a second longer than you mean to. He looks… peaceful. Comfortable in a way you’re not used to seeing. You almost don’t want to wake him. But you lift your hand anyway and tap lightly against the window. His eyes open slowly. He blinks a few times, disoriented for a second, like he’s trying to place himself. You bite your lip, shifting your weight as the wind picks up again, instinctively rubbing your arms.

He notices immediately. He pushes himself upright and cracks the door open, and you step back to give him space as he swings it fully open and steps out.

“God, I’m so sorry, Rafe,” you start, the words coming out fast. “I didn’t think I’d be out all day, and then it just -before I knew it, it was eight and I-”

He cuts you off with a small shake of his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “No, no, it’s okay,” he says, voice still a little rough from sleep. “I haven’t been here that long.”

He stretches as he steps away from the car, rolling his shoulders back, arms lifting briefly before dropping again. Your eyes betray you for half a second, tracking the movement before you force them back up.

You clear your throat.

“If you want, we can just reschedule,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward your house. “Tomorrow or something.”

He glances down at his watch, squinting slightly. “It’s only eight twenty-three,” he says, looking back at you. “I’m still down to cook if you are.”

He steps a little closer, hands slipping into his pockets, and you immediately look past him toward your front door, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

You nod anyway. “Yeah. Okay.”

You turn toward the house, already moving, needing the distraction.

“You’re not gonna help me with the groceries?” he calls after you, and you can hear the smirk in his voice without even looking back.

You unlock the door, pushing it open as you shake your head. “I’m technically disabled,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at him.

He huffs a quiet laugh as he reaches back into the car, grabbing as many bags as he can in one go.

“Right,” he mutters. “Convenient.”

You step inside, holding the door open for him as he follows, the familiar sound of plastic bags rustling filling the space as he walks past you into the kitchen. The house feels different with him in it again.

Not loud. Not chaotic. But full. You close the door behind you, leaning against it for half a second before pushing yourself off and heading after him.

“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands once like you’re resetting the moment. “Chef. What’s the plan?”

He sets the bags down on the counter, glancing at you with a small, easy smile. “You’re teaching me, remember?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already moving closer, peeking into the bags. “God help me,” you mumble.

He hears it. “Hey,” he says, nudging your hip lightly as he passes you to wash his hands. “Have a little faith.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling anyway as you start pulling things out of the bags, lining them up on the counter. “Don’t ruin my kitchen,” you say.

He glances over his shoulder at you, turning the water on. “Your kitchen?” he echoes.

You don’t miss a beat. “My kitchen.”

He smiles to himself, shaking his head as he dries his hands. “Alright,” he says. “Show me what to do.”

You lean your hip against the counter and start pulling things out of the bags one by one, lining them up like you’re about to run a class instead of cook dinner. Shrimp, pasta, heavy cream, peppers, garlic, a block of parmesan, Cajun seasoning you recognize immediately. He actually paid attention.

“Okay,” you say, glancing over at him. “First of all, I’m impressed. You got everything.”

He shrugs, drying his hands on a towel before tossing it over his shoulder. “I listen sometimes.”

“Rarely,” you correct, reaching for the shrimp.

He steps in beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the cutting board. It’s subtle, but it makes you pause for half a second before you keep moving.

“Did you already clean these?” you ask, holding up the shrimp.

“Yeah,” he says. “Mostly.”

You give him a look. “Mostly?”

“They’re clean,” he amends.

“Rafe,” you say flatly.

He sighs and takes them from you. “Fine. I’ll rinse them again.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, grabbing a knife and sliding the peppers toward you.

The kitchen settles into something easy after that. You talk him through everything step by step, showing him how to slice the peppers, how to mince the garlic without crushing it into paste, how to season the shrimp properly instead of dumping half the container on it.

“Not that much,” you say, catching his wrist as he tilts the seasoning too far.

He pauses, glancing down at where your fingers are wrapped lightly around his hand. For a second neither of you move. Then you let go, clearing your throat as you turn back to the stove.

“Just… a little,” you add, like nothing happened.

“Right,” he says quietly.

He adjusts, this time actually listening, and you nod once in approval before moving on. “You’re learning,” you tell him.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replies.

“I am surprised,” you shoot back, but there’s a smile there. You fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, turning the heat up. He watches you for a second before stepping in to grab the pasta box, opening it without asking.

“Look at you,” you say. “Being proactive.”

“I’m evolving,” he says dryly.

You laugh, shaking your head as you move around him to grab a pan. You don’t bump into each other, not really. It’s more like you keep almost doing it, adjusting at the last second like your bodies still remember how to move around each other.

The oil hits the pan and starts to warm, and you nod toward it. “Go ahead. Put the shrimp in.”

He hesitates for half a second. “All of it?”

“All of it,” you confirm.

He does, a little too fast, and the pan hisses loudly. He flinches.

You laugh immediately. “Relax. It’s just oil.”

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters, stepping back slightly. “That sounded aggressive.”

“You’ll live,” you say, reaching past him to adjust the heat. He watches you again, quieter this time. Not in a way that feels heavy, just… attentive.

“You’ve been cooking a lot?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, flipping the shrimp. “I have to eat real food. She won’t let me survive off snacks anymore.”

He glances down at your stomach instinctively, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Good.”

You feel it, the way his attention shifts there, softer, and you keep your focus on the pan. “You say that like you weren’t living off cereal a week ago,” you remind him.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ve upgraded.”

“Right,” you say, but there’s no edge to it. The pasta water starts to boil, and he moves before you can say anything, pouring it in carefully this time. You nod once, approving.

“See? You’re not completely useless.”

“High praise,” he says.

You smile to yourself as you start on the sauce, adding butter, then garlic, the smell immediately filling the kitchen. He leans slightly against the counter, watching you again, but this time he’s closer.

“Smells good,” he says.

“It will be if you don’t mess it up,” you reply.

“I’m not touching anything else,” he says, holding his hands up briefly.

“Good.” There’s a small stretch of quiet after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that comes with doing something together, not needing to fill every second.

You stir the sauce, adding the cream, watching it thicken, and you can feel him still there beside you. “You had fun today?” he asks after a moment.

You glance at him. “Yeah.”

“With them?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “They threw me a whole baby shower.”

His brows lift slightly. “They did?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, turning back to the pan. “Very chaotic. Very on brand.”

He smiles faintly at that, looking down at the counter for a second before back at you.

“You deserve that,” he says.

The words are simple, but they land heavier than you expect. You don’t respond right away, just stirring the sauce slowly before adding the cheese. “It was nice,” you say finally.

He nods once, like that’s enough. You finish the sauce, draining the pasta while he grabs two plates without being asked this time. You notice, but you don’t point it out.

“Put the pasta in the pan,” you tell him. “Then mix it.”

He does, carefully, not rushing it, and you step in beside him to guide his hand slightly.

“Like that,” you say. “Slow.” He follows your lead, and for a second it feels almost… familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. You step back first.

“Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “You didn’t mess it up.”

He looks at you, a small, satisfied smile forming. “I told you.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but you’re already reaching for a fork.

He plates the food, handing one to you before grabbing his own, and you both move toward the table without really thinking about it. You sit across from each other, the same way you did at his place, but this time it’s your house, your kitchen, your space. You take a bite first. It’s good. Really good.

You look up at him. “Okay… it’s actually good.”

He leans back slightly, clearly pleased. “Of course it is.”

“Don’t push it,” you say, but you’re smiling as you take another bite. And just like that, it feels easy again. Not perfect, not defined, but steady enough that neither of you rush to break it.

“Second time having dinner together in what… three weeks?” he asks, taking another bite, his tone light but not meaningless.

You nod, glancing down at your plate. “Yeah…” You don’t quite know what to do with that. It sounds casual, but there’s something under it, like he’s testing the weight of it.

He doesn’t push, just nods once before his eyes drift down to your stomach.

“We should probably be picking out names for real now,” he says. “You’re getting close.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, pushing your fork through the pasta more than actually eating it. “Seven months yesterday.”

He exhales quietly through his nose, like that number means something bigger to him than he expected.

“That’s… soon,” he says. Then, after a second, “Another reason I need to get better at cooking. For her.”

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah, well… if you don’t, you can come over and have dinner with us every once in a while.”

The words come out easier than you expect. Us. He catches it. You can tell by the way his mouth lifts slightly, something softer than his usual smirk. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says.

You roll your eyes lightly, but you don’t take it back. He leans back a little in his chair, studying you for a second. “So you still like Quinn for a girl?” he asks, that familiar playful edge creeping in.

You glance toward the bookshelf in the corner of your living room, something clicking. “I have an idea,” you say, already pushing yourself up from the chair with a small groan. Rafe moves immediately, instinctively, like he’s about to help you, but he stops himself halfway. You notice it, the restraint, and something in your chest softens.

“I’m good,” you mutter, already making your way over.

You pad across the room, eyes scanning the shelf until you find it- the baby name book Noel bought months ago and you have barely touched since. You pull it out and head toward the couch, lowering yourself down carefully, settling into the cushions.

Rafe lingers by the table for a second, like he’s unsure where he fits in this version of the moment.

You glance up at him and nod toward the space beside you. “Come on.” That’s all it takes.

He walks over and sits, leaving a respectful gap between you at first, like he’s trying to do everything right this time. It lasts about two seconds before you shift closer, angling the book between you so you can both see. Your thighs brush. Neither of you moves away.

You flip the book open, scanning the pages. “Okay… no weird names,” you say. “I’m not setting her up to get bullied.”

He huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “Good. That rules out like half the book.”

You smile, turning a page. “And nothing too basic either.”

“Quinn isn’t basic,” he argues.

“It’s trending,” you counter.

“Trending is not the same as basic.”

You glance at him. “You’ve definitely never picked a baby name before.”

“Neither have you,” he shoots back.

“Yeah, but I’ve at least thought about it.”

He leans in slightly, closer now, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he looks down at the page. “Alright, what else you got?”

You skim for a second before tapping a name lightly. “Blythe.”

He repeats it under his breath, testing it. “Blythe…”

“I like it,” you say. “It’s different, but not in an annoying way.”

He nods slowly. “It’s… calm.”

You glance at him, a little surprised. “Calm?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Feels soft. Like… steady.”

You don’t say anything to that, but you feel it settle somewhere in your chest. You turn to another page. “Esme?”

He smiles a little. “You just want her to sound expensive.”

You laugh. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists. “Esme Cameron sounds like she owns property.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Shut up.”

He laughs quietly, and the sound is softer than you’re used to. Less guarded. You both fall into it after that, flipping through pages, tossing out names, rejecting most of them immediately. It’s easy in a way that feels dangerous if you think about it too hard, so you don’t.

At some point, you stop on a page without saying anything.

He notices. “What?”

You hesitate, then tap the name lightly. “I kind of like this one too.”

He leans in to read it, closer than before, his arm nearly brushing yours. “Hmm,” he hums, considering it.

You wait, watching his face instead of the page.

“It’s good,” he says finally. “But I still like Quinn.”

You smile, shaking your head. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no real fight in it. “Fine,” you say. “We’ll keep it on the list.”

He glances at you then, something quiet passing through his expression. “On the list,” he repeats.

And for a second, it doesn’t feel like just a name anymore.

Somewhere along the way, everything shifts without either of you noticing. At first it’s just proximity. Then it’s more than that. You’re closer now, pressed lightly into his side, the space between you gone. One of his arms is stretched along the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching but close enough that you feel it. You lean into him without thinking, your shoulder resting against his chest.

For a moment -just a moment- it feels like nothing ever broke between you.

“Okay, okay… what about Renee?” he says, pointing lazily at the page.

“I think Solène is prettier,” you counter, your voice softer now as you tilt your head, letting it rest against his shoulder.

He stills slightly. “It’s perfect,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten.

You lift your head slowly, looking at him for a second before your eyes drift away, landing on the analog clock above the TV. The steady ticking feels louder than it should.

“It’s late,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, though there’s a faint disappointment in his voice.

He shifts, already starting to sit forward. “Let me help you clean up and then I’ll head out.” He’s halfway to standing when your hand moves without thinking, settling against his thigh to stop him.

He pauses immediately. The contact lingers for half a second too long before you realize where your hand is. Your breath catches slightly and you pull it back quickly, heat creeping up your neck.

“Sorry,” you say, a little flustered. “Um… it’s late. You don’t have to go. You can stay here if you want. You shouldn’t really be on the roads this late anyway.” The words come out a little rushed, but you mean them.

He studies you for a second, something soft behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“I know,” you reply, quieter now. “Consider it repayment for… everything today. The groceries. Waiting.”

There’s a brief pause where neither of you moves. Then he nods once. “Alright,” he says.

And just like that, the night shifts again. They don’t say much at first. The shift settles between you quietly, not awkward, just different. You close the baby name book and set it aside, pushing yourself up from the couch a little slower this time.

“I’ll get the plates,” you say.

Rafe is already standing. “No, I’ve got it.”

“You always say that and then I end up doing half of it anyway,” you reply, heading toward the kitchen.

He follows you in anyway, grabbing the plates before you can reach for them. “Not tonight.”

You give him a look but let it go, moving to the sink to run the water. The kitchen fills with the soft sound of it as he sets everything down beside you. For a minute, it’s just the two of you moving around each other again, passing things back and forth, rinsing, drying, putting things away. It’s easy. Too easy.

“You missed a spot,” you say, nodding toward a streak on one of the plates.

He glances down, then back at you. “You’re micromanaging.”

“I’m supervising,” you correct.

He huffs a quiet laugh and fixes it anyway. You bump his arm lightly when you reach past him for the dish towel, and neither of you pulls away right away. It lingers just long enough to notice before you both shift again like it didn’t.

“You’re doing better,” you admit after a minute.

“Yeah?” he says, drying his hands.

“Yeah. I might let you cook unsupervised one day.”

“Let me?” he repeats, raising a brow.

You shrug. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He smiles to himself, shaking his head as he sets the last dish in place. When everything’s cleaned up, the house feels quieter again. Not empty, just settled.

You glance around, then back at him. “I’ll grab you some blankets.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I know,” you cut in lightly, already turning toward the hallway. “But I’m going to.”

He watches you go but doesn’t argue this time. You move through your room, pulling a couple of extra blankets from the closet along with a pillow that isn’t too worn in. It takes a second to decide which one to bring, which one feels… right, before you stop yourself from overthinking it and just grab one. When you come back out, he’s standing near the couch, hands in his pockets, looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself in your space.

“Here,” you say, handing him the pillow first.

He takes it carefully, like it’s something more than it is. “Thanks.”

You set the blankets down on the couch, unfolding one of them before stepping back. “It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s better than your car.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”

You hesitate for a second, then gesture vaguely. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you need it. There’s an extra toothbrush under the sink. I think.”

“You think?” he repeats.

“I don’t usually have guests,” you say.

He glances at you for a second at that, something unreadable passing through his expression before he nods. “Got it.”

You shift your weight, suddenly aware of the quiet again. “Okay,” you say softly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he answers.

You turn and head back toward your room, closing the door behind you a little slower than usual. For a second, you just stand there, listening. The house is quiet. He’s here. It settles differently than you expect.

You climb into bed, adjusting your pillow, one hand resting over your stomach like it always does now. You stare at the ceiling for a while, your mind running a little faster than you want it to.

Eventually, you turn onto your side, trying to get comfortable. But sleep doesn’t come as easily as it should. Ever since you’d admitted it out loud to Becca -that part of you wanted to try again with Rafe- it felt like your memories had started betraying you.

You could still remember the bad moments if you forced yourself to. The arguments. The ultimatums. The jealousy. The emotional whiplash of loving someone who never seemed entirely sure how to love you back. You remembered crying in bathrooms so nobody would see. You remembered staring at your phone waiting for texts that never came. You remembered all the times he made you feel like you were standing on unstable ground.

But lately, those memories felt quieter. Not gone. Just quieter.

What kept surfacing instead were the good things. The way he’d pull you against his chest while watching movies. The way he always knew when you were overwhelmed before you said a word. The nights spent talking until sunrise. The way he looked at you when he forgot to guard himself. Part of you hated that.

You had worked so hard to let him go. You had spent months convincing yourself that missing someone wasn’t enough reason to keep them in your life. You’d forced yourself to accept that loving somebody didn’t automatically make them good for you.

And yet, here you were. Lying awake in bed and thinking about him anyway. Maybe it was the pregnancy. Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was watching him show up over and over again without asking for anything in return. Maybe it was seeing genuine change instead of empty promises.

Or maybe you were simply tired of carrying old hurt around with you. Forgiveness wasn’t the same thing as forgetting. You knew that. You hadn’t forgotten anything. You still remembered every painful conversation. Every disappointment. Every moment he made you question yourself. But people could grow. You believed that. You had grown. The woman you were now wasn’t the same woman who had fallen in love with him over a year ago. She was stronger. More confident. Less willing to accept things she didn’t deserve.

And maybe Rafe wasn’t the same person either. The thought settled heavily in your chest. Not uncomfortable. Just honest. You didn’t need him. That had never been the issue. You knew how to take care of yourself. You knew how to survive heartbreak. You knew how to build a life without a man standing beside you.

But wanting someone was different than needing them. And if you were being completely truthful with yourself, you wanted him. Not the version of him that had hurt you. This version. The one who showed up. The one who listened. The one who seemed determined to become somebody better. It felt strangely like a final opportunity. Not fate. Not destiny. Just life presenting a choice and asking what you wanted to do with it.

Eventually, your thoughts slowed enough for you to notice the time. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. Then your stomach growled. Immediately. Loudly. You groaned. “Of course.”

The snacks in your nightstand suddenly sounded completely unappealing. With a sigh, you pushed the duvet aside and carefully climbed out of bed. The house was dark and quiet as you made your way downstairs. By the time you reached the last step, your eyes drifted automatically toward the couch.

Rafe was still asleep. One arm was folded across his chest while the other rested beside him. His brows were furrowed slightly, just like they always were when he slept deeply. The blanket you’d given him had twisted around his legs at some point during the night. Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

For one dangerous second, you wanted to walk over there. You wanted to brush your fingers through his hair. Kiss his forehead. Maybe his cheek. Maybe-

You immediately shook the thought away. Absolutely not. You turned and headed straight for the kitchen before your hormones could come up with any more terrible ideas. A few minutes later, the freezer door was open and you were standing in front of it eating vanilla ice cream directly from the tub. The first few spoonfuls were perfect. The fifth one wasn’t. You frowned. Apparently ice cream wasn’t what you wanted. Pregnancy was ridiculous. After returning the carton to the freezer, you wandered over to the pantry and immediately spotted what actually sounded good. Hawaiian rolls. Applesauce. Perfect.

You grabbed one roll. Then paused. Who were you kidding? You were absolutely coming back downstairs in twenty minutes. With a sigh, you grabbed the entire package of rolls and a fresh six-pack of applesauce cups before closing the pantry door. Arms full of snacks, you started toward the staircase. You had barely made it to the third step when a sleepy voice floated across the room.

“So is this a nightly thing, or are you just using it as an excuse to watch me sleep?” You stopped and turned around.

Rafe was sitting up now, rubbing at his eyes. A sleepy grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. You rolled your eyes immediately. Unfortunately, your own smile appeared anyway. Walking back toward the bottom of the stairs, you lifted the package of rolls slightly.

“No. This is not a nightly thing. Sometimes I get pretzels and applesauce instead.”

His laugh was low and rough from sleep. “Good to know.” Then his expression softened. “Everything okay?”

The question caught you off guard. You knew he was asking because you were awake at nearly 2 AM, not because he suspected the hour-long spiral you’d just had about your relationship. Still. It made your chest warm.

“Yeah,” you said. “I just couldn’t sleep. And apparently she decided she’s hungry again.”

You rubbed your stomach. Rafe glanced down automatically. “Oh, so she’s already exactly like her mom.”

You pointed at him. “Your genes tried.” His eyebrows lifted. “The winner takes all,” you sang in an awful imitation of ABBA.

Rafe laughed hard enough that his shoulders shook. You smiled to yourself and started turning back toward the stairs. Then stopped. Something tugged at you. Maybe it was the loneliness that sometimes came with living by yourself. Maybe it was the fact that your house suddenly felt a little emptier than usual. Maybe it was simply that you didn’t want to be alone.

Whatever it was, the words slipped out before you could stop them. “Rafe.” He looked up immediately. You shifted your weight. “You wanna come upstairs and watch The Nanny with me?”

The second the question left your mouth, you felt ridiculous. Rafe propped himself up on one elbow.

A smirk appeared instantly. “Only if you don’t force-feed me your pregnancy cravings.”

You quickly hid the rolls behind your back. “I can’t make any promises.”

His grin widened. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” A moment later he stood, grabbing the pillow and blanket from the couch.

Together, you headed upstairs. You pushed your bedroom door open and held it while he walked inside.

“Sorry it’s messy,” you said automatically. “I haven’t had time to clean.” Using your foot, you nudged a pile of clothes closer to the wall. Rafe glanced around once. Then he looked at you. “We used to live together.” You froze. A smile appeared on his face. “I know how messy you are.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I am not messy.”

“You left three coffee cups on your nightstand once.”

“That was one time.”

“It was from three different days.”

“It still counts as one time.”

Rafe laughed as he tossed the pillow onto the bed and stretched out comfortably on what had somehow always been his side.

You stared at him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re messy.”

You grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it directly at his face. His laughter filled the room before the pillow even landed. You sit down on the bed facing away from him and immediately dig into the pack of Hawaiian rolls. After pulling one apart, you peel the foil lid off an applesauce cup and dip the bread into it before taking a bite. Honestly, it was incredible. You close your eyes for a second, savoring it. The baby clearly agreed.

The mattress shifts behind you. “What are you doing?”

You can hear the amusement in Rafe’s voice. Heat immediately creeps up your neck. Which is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. This man had seen you throw up. He’d seen you cry. He’d seen you with food poisoning once. He was the father of your child. And yet somehow, him catching you dipping Hawaiian rolls into applesauce had you feeling like a twelve-year-old girl getting caught writing hearts around her crush’s name.

You swallow quickly, wipe your mouth, and shift the bite to the side of your cheek before glancing over your shoulder. “I’m eating,” you say, suddenly feeling defensive.

Rafe is already looking at you. A slow smile sits on his face. Not a teasing one. Just… soft. His eyes drift briefly to the food in your hand before returning to your face. “I can see that.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why’d you ask?”

His smile widens. “I was trying to figure out what exactly I was looking at.”

You roll your eyes and turn back toward the television. The familiar opening notes of The Nanny begin playing through the room. Almost immediately, your mood improves.

You hum along to the theme song, tapping your fingers lightly against the applesauce cup and swaying your shoulders to the music. By the second verse you’re quietly singing under your breath. By the chorus you’re fully committed. Not loudly. Just enough. The kind of singing people do when they’re completely comfortable. When the theme song ends, you take another bite and glance beside you. Rafe is staring again. The same strange smile on his face.

Your stomach flips. “What?”

His eyes flick away for a second. “Nothing.”

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m literally just sitting here.”

“You’re literally staring.”

His grin grows. You point your roll at him.

“See? There it is again.”

He shakes his head, dropping his gaze toward the television as if the conversation is over. It isn’t. Not for you. You continue watching him suspiciously. A few seconds pass. Then he glances back. The smile returns.

You groan dramatically. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You think I’m weird.”

“I definitely think you’re weird.”

You gasp. Rafe laughs. “You are eating bread dipped in applesauce.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Exactly.”

He holds up both hands in surrender.

“Exactly.”

You study him for a second before lifting the applesauce cup. “I think you want some.”

Rafe blinks. His eyes immediately drop toward your hands before lifting back to your face. “Want some what?”

The tips of your ears warm instantly. You roll your eyes. “The food, Cameron.”

His grin becomes downright unbearable. “Oh.”

You hold up the Hawaiian rolls and applesauce. “This.”

“Right.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Maybe.”

You tear off another piece of bread and dip it into the cup. Rafe watches with genuine concern. “I don’t think that’s a real pregnancy craving.”

“It is now.”

“I think that’s a crime.”

You laugh despite yourself. Then, after a moment, you hold out the applesauce. “Try it.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “No.”

“Try it.”

“No chance.”

“Rafe.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being reasonable.” You hold up the small piece to him anyway. He stares at it. Then at you. Then at the bread.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I was starting to think inviting me upstairs was sweet.”

“It was.”

“But really this was all a setup.”

You smile innocently. “It absolutely was.”

Rafe groans but leans forward anyway. And for the first time all night, neither of you notices the television anymore. You hold the applesauce-dipped bread out toward his mouth.

“You said you wouldn’t make me eat this,” he says, eyeing it suspiciously.

“I said I wouldn’t make any promises. Open up.” He looks at you for another second like he’s considering his options. Then, to your surprise, he opens his mouth almost immediately. You laugh softly and place the piece of bread into it.

The moment feels strangely intimate. Far more intimate than it should. You’re literally feeding him applesauce-covered Hawaiian rolls in your bed while watching sitcom reruns, but somehow it feels more vulnerable than half the serious conversations you’ve had recently. Maybe because it’s easy. Maybe because it feels familiar. You watch him chew, waiting for his reaction. His eyebrows pinch together at first. Confusion. Then curiosity. Then something that looks suspiciously like enjoyment.

Your smile appears instantly. “You like it?”

Rafe swallows. “It’s not bad,” he says with a shrug.

“You like it.”

“It’s tolerable.”

You give him a look. He tries to maintain a straight face. It lasts all of three seconds before his hand reaches for another roll. Without even thinking about it, he tears off a piece, grabs the applesauce from your lap, and dips it himself. You immediately point at him. “Oh, you so like it.”

He takes another bite. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You went back for seconds.”

“I was verifying.”

“Verifying what?”

“That the first bite wasn’t a fluke.”

You laugh. He’s impossible.

“You like it,” you repeat.

Rafe chews slowly before finally nodding. “Yeah.” The admission comes easier than you expected.

A small smile tugs at your lips. You tear off another piece for yourself and dip it into the applesauce.

“I knew it.”

“You should probably keep this hidden from society.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“No, I’m serious. If people find out I’m eating bread dipped in applesauce, I’ll never recover.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. The sound seems to make him smile. For a moment neither of you says anything. You both continue eating from the same package of rolls and the same applesauce cup without even acknowledging it. Without thinking about it. The way people do when they’ve spent enough time together that certain habits become automatic. Eventually you glance toward the television.

“We’re missing the show.”

You point at the screen before anything else can happen. Before you start paying too much attention to how close he’s sitting. Before you start paying attention to the warmth of him beside you. Before your mind starts wandering somewhere dangerous.

Rafe follows your gaze toward the television. “Right.”

You settle back against the headboard and focus on the episode. Or at least you pretend to. Because even while you’re watching, you’re aware of him. Aware of his shoulder brushing yours every now and then. Aware of the way he’s stretched out comfortably beside you. Aware of how natural this all feels. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him looking at you once. Then again. The second time, he quickly looks back at the television. You decide not to call him out on it. The show continues playing. A few minutes pass. The room grows quieter. Comfortable. Then Rafe speaks.

“I missed this.” His voice is softer now. Less playful.

You glance toward him. “What?”

He keeps his eyes on the television. Not looking at you. Just speaking honestly. “This.” His hand lifts vaguely between the two of you. “Just being around each other.” Something in your chest tightens.

“I missed talking to you. Eating dinner together. Watching dumb shows.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “Just existing in the same room without everything being so hard all the time.”

You don’t answer right away. Because you know exactly what he means. You missed it too. The ordinary parts. The little things nobody talks about when relationships end. Not the dates. Not the big moments. The everyday stuff. The random conversations in the kitchen. Falling asleep on opposite sides of the couch. Arguing over what to watch. Sharing snacks. Being each other’s person. Your eyes stay on the television for another second.

Then, instead of answering, you shift closer. Slowly. Carefully. You rest your head against his shoulder. The words leave him immediately. His entire body stills for half a second before relaxing again.

Neither of you says anything after that. The episode continues playing. The applesauce sits forgotten on your lap. And for the first time in a very long time, being beside him doesn’t feel complicated. It just feels right.

-

You wake to the distant sound of gulls outside and the steady crash of waves against the shore. For a moment, you’re disoriented, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Then your eyes slowly open and land on the television across the room. The screen glows faintly with the familiar “Are you still watching?” message that appears after too many episodes have played unattended.

As you begin to sit up, you realize that sometime during the night, you and Rafe had ended up tangled together beneath the blankets. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist, his hand resting against your side. Your stomach rolls suddenly and you press a palm against your belly, breathing through the wave of nausea that greets you most mornings these days. It isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it still catches you off guard sometimes.

You close your eyes and focus on taking slow breaths until the feeling eases enough for you to ignore it.

Beside you, Rafe remains completely asleep. His breathing is deep and even. The morning light filtering through the curtains catches the stubble along his jaw, making it look darker than usual. Before you can think too much about it, you lift your hand and brush your index finger lightly across it.

The movement makes him stir. Not enough to wake up, but enough that you immediately pull your hand back like you’ve been caught doing something embarrassing. You shake your head at yourself before reaching over and patting his chest gently.

“Rafe,” you whisper. Nothing. He remains asleep. You try again, this time giving his shoulder a small shake. “Rafe.”

His eyes fly open immediately. “What? What’s wrong?” he asks, already trying to push himself upright.

You quickly place a hand against his chest.

“Nothing. Relax.”

He pauses but doesn’t completely settle back down, his eyes immediately dropping to your stomach. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “I just woke up and realized we fell asleep.”

He glances toward the television and then toward the window. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.”

His eyebrows lift. “Damn.”

He drags a hand down his face before propping himself up on one elbow. Short hair is a mess from sleep and there are faint pillow marks along one side of his cheek. For some reason, the sight makes you smile.

Rafe rubs the heel of his palm into his eyes and yawns. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

“You were asleep.”

“Still.” He shifts like he’s about to get out of bed. “Let me get out of your hair.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and presses a casual kiss against your stomach. The gesture is so natural that it completely catches you off guard. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t make a big deal of it. It’s almost absentminded, like something he’s been doing forever. Then he starts to climb out of bed.

Your hand immediately closes around his wrist. The motion surprises both of you. Rafe looks down at your hand before looking back at you. You tug lightly. “Get back here.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Really?”

You pull him back toward the mattress. He goes willingly. Far too willingly. The second his head hits the pillow again, he looks entirely pleased with himself. “I’m not kicking you out yet,” you say.

“Yet?” he repeats, one eyebrow lifting.

You settle back onto your side, facing him.

“Only because I don’t feel like making breakfast.”

His smile grows. “Oh, that’s why.”

“Obviously.”

“So I’m being used.”

“Correct.”

“I knew it.”

You laugh softly. “You’re being dramatic.”

He folds one arm behind his head.

“What do you want me to make?”

You think for a moment. “Something with potatoes.”

“Anything else?”

“Fruit.”

“Anything else?”

You place a hand on your stomach. “Whatever your daughter wants.”

His eyes immediately drop to your belly. “My daughter?”

“Mm-hmm.”

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Our daughter,” he corrects.

You pretend to think about it. “Debatable.”

Rafe lets out a laugh and reaches over, placing his hand lightly against your stomach. The baby shifts almost immediately beneath his palm. His entire expression changes. The teasing disappears. Not dramatically. Just enough that you notice it.

“There she is,” he says quietly.

You smile despite yourself. “She’s probably hungry.”

“Just like her mom.” 

You point at him. “Go make breakfast.”

He groans dramatically but finally pushes himself out of bed. As he heads toward the door, he glances back once.“You realize I’m never letting you forget that you invited me to stay.”

You pull the blanket higher over yourself. “You slept on my couch.”

“And then your bed.”

You roll your eyes. Rafe laughs and disappears down the hallway toward the kitchen, leaving you smiling into your pillow before you can stop yourself.

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