Page 22 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Shoes off?” he asks, hovering by the entry like he’s trying not to creak on anything important.
“Yeah,” I say, sliding mine off with a grunt. “The floor squeaks when it’s mad.”
He huffs a laugh, toeing off his boots. The laugh hits warmer than it should.
A knock. I jump, then realize—my dinner.Lucas is already moving, opening the door to a teenage delivery guy who beams when he sees my belly.
“Congrats!” the kid chirps, handing over two stapled paper bags. “Extra soy sauce in there.”
“Bless you,” I say, near tears at the sight of lo mein. Pregnancy is a constant emotional rollercoaster.
Lucas handled getting his order and my order sent here. And was coordinating with them the whole time to ensure it would arrive right when we got home. Such a small gesture, but it still makes my heart swoon.
We unload on the counter. Lucas arranges cartons with tactical precision—rice, lo mein, orange chicken, crab rangoon like a compass rose. “Water first,” he says, filling a glass and setting it in front of me like it’s a mission parameter. “Hydration.”
“Yes, Captain Safety,” I tease, but I drink. It helps, actually.
He doesn’t press. He doesn’t even circle the subject like a shark the way I expected. He asks, “How are you feeling now?” and waits for the real answer, not the polite one.
“Better,” I admit. “Less… belt-tighten-y. Also starving.”
He gestures to the feast. “Problem set with an obvious solution.”
We eat at the counter, elbows bumping, cartons between us like a buffet. He listens while I talk about Baby Bungalow and the Great Llama Avalanche. I listen while he tells me a sanitizedversion of the job—holiday party details, nothing identifying, just enough to know he’s here until January.
He uses chopsticks like he could perform surgery, and I alternate between them and a fork because the baby demands both speed and elegance. When I praise Dragon Garden’s crab rangoon, he nods solemnly like we’ve just agreed on a treaty. It’s absurdly normal, and if I don’t watch myself, I could fall in love with something this soft and domestic without noticing.
His eyes flick to the living room. “You put the crib together?”
“With Amelia. There was swearing.” I sip water. “And tears. Mainly mine.”
“Corner anchors?” he asks.
“Anchored,” I say, pointing. “You can check if you want.” Kind of hoping he takes me up on my offer.
“Okay.” he whispers, meaning it.
We clear the cartons together. He rinses as I load the dishes. The rhythm is easy. Dangerous, my brain whispers. I ignore it and lead him to the couch with the gelatinous grace of a very pregnant penguin.
We end up turned toward each other, knees almost touching, each with an elbow hooked over the back cushion and a hand propping our heads like mirror images. His other hand drifts to the couch between us, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm. I stare at those fingers—strong, careful—and think about how they felt on my elbow, on my pulse, on the edge of panic smoothing it flat.
Then, without even trying… I remembermore. His hands on my waist by a roaring fire. His hands in my hair. Me moaning hisname. I nearly cry when I think about the orgasms he gave me that night.
He stops tapping and interlaces his fingers with mine as if he’s thinking the very same thoughts.
My whole body zings like someone plugged me into a warm outlet. It’s a simple thing—palms fitted, fingers threaded—but it’s also not simple at all. I feel it in my chest, in the baby’s little flurry, in the way the room narrows to this point of contact.
He watches our hands for a beat, then looks up. His eyes fixed on mine. I get lost in them. “How far along are you?” he asks gently. “Week-wise.” He adds, almost like a footnote, “Braxton Hicks usually show up later. Not always, but?—”
The math is back in his eyes. I see it click through him like a tide chart. I swallow. My mouth goes cotton-dry, which is rude because I just drank two rivers.
“Thirty-one weeks,” I say. My voice comes out thin. “Tomorrow.”
He nods once. The smallest shift. He’s not pushing, not interrogating. He’s giving me space, which is somehow worse because I have to walk into it on my own. The truth is a door I’ve been orbiting for months.
“I need to—” I start, then stop. The baby kicks, a soft drum against my palm, as if to saysay it.I blow out a breath. “There’s no Freddy.”
Silence. We both watch the sentence settle between us like a snowflake that weighs a thousand pounds.
