Page 36 of Uxpectedly Ever After

He's so close I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I wonder if he can hear it.

"Banks—" I whisper, but he cuts me off.

"No." He shakes his head, one hand moving to cup my cheek with a gentleness that’s completely different from the fierceexpression on his face. "I'm not done. I'm here because the thought of being anywhere else—of not being the one who takes care of you, who makes sure you eat, who feels our baby kick for the first time—would fucking destroy me. Do you understand?"

I can only nod, my voice caught somewhere in my throat as his thumb traces over my cheekbone.

"Good," he says, and then he's pushing away from the wall, leaving me breathless and unsteady.

Then he does the absolute last thing I'm expecting.

He drops to his knees in front of me.

His hands—those big, capable hands that have pulled people from burning buildings and fixed my leaky shower and cooked me dinner—come to rest on my hips. Then, like I'm made of glass, one hand slides to my stomach. His touch is so gentle, so reverent, that tears immediately flood my eyes.

"Clover James," he says, and his voice breaks on my name as tears fall in rivers down my face. There’s no stopping them. It’s a full-on flood. "There hasn't been a damn thing casual about you and me, not since the moment I met you."

Whatever walls I've been desperately trying to rebuild around my heart just completely crumble at his words. I couldn't stop the tears now if my life depended on it.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, and then—oh my god—he presses his forehead against my stomach, like somehow he's already talking to our baby. Ourbaby. "You hear me? This isn't just about the baby, Clover. It's about you. It's always been about you."

His words unlock something in my chest that's been rusted shut for so long I forgot it was even there. This hope I've never let myself feel, this future I've been too terrified to imagine because I was so sure it could never be real.

"Banks," I whisper, reaching out to touch his hair before I can stop myself. It's soft between my fingers, still a little damp fromhis post-shift shower, and he leans into my touch like a man dying of thirst who just found water.

"I know," he says, his lips moving against my shirt, against my stomach where our baby is growing. The words are a little muffled but there's no mistaking them. “I'm not going back to my apartment next week, and you better not try to make me."

A sob rips its way out of my chest, and suddenly his arms are around me, holding me up as my knees completely give out. We end up on the floor together, his big body curled around mine like he's trying to protect me from the world, while I cry all over his chest.

"I'm scared," I admit between hiccupping sobs. "I'm so fucking scared, Banks."

"I know," he says, his lips pressed against my hair. "Me too. But we're gonna figure this out. You and me.”

"You and me,” I repeat, and the words feel strange in my mouth. But they also feel right.

His hand finds its way back to my stomach, and I cover it with mine without even thinking, linking our fingers together. For the first time since I saw those two pink lines, the panic that's been choking me starts to loosen its grip. In its place is something that feels dangerously like hope.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers into my hair. "Not a chance in hell. You can’t make me."

And despite all my fears, despite the walls I've spent years building to keep everyone out, despite the fact that my life plan has been my safety blanket for as long as I can remember—I actually believe him.

It’s been two weeks since Clover told me I'm going to be a father, and I still can't wrap my head around it.

I wake up every morning in her bed—though it's basically our bed now—and for about three seconds, everything feels normal. Then it hits me all over again: I'm going to be a dad. There's a tiny human growing inside the woman sleeping basically on top of me. A human we made together, one that’s half her and half me and it’s a straight up mindfuck.

A human that's turned me into a complete paranoid lunatic who's one internet search away from bubble-wrapping the entire apartment.

In fact, I’ve never seen her look more beautiful than she does right now—warm, sleepy, and carrying our baby.

My morning wood twitches against the thigh she’s got draped over my hips, but neither of us acknowledges it.

“Can’t help it,” I say, running a fingertip over the curve of her cheek, counting the scatter of freckles that’ve driven me crazy for years. The ones I’ve now memorized. “You sprouted more of these overnight. There’re at least three new ones.”

One eye cracks open. “Not possible.”

“It’s totally possible. Pregnancy does weird shit, Freckles. I read about it in one of the books."

She groans, dragging a pillow over her face. “If you quote another pregnancy book at me, I swear to God, I’ll scream.I thought I was the one with the organizational kink in this relationship.”

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