Page 26 of Tight End
I led her out to the kitchen, and she paused again when she spied the breakfast I’d made sitting on the island.
I didn’t say anything. Just pulled out a stool and handed her a fork, then poured her orange juice.
She took the glass with a small smile and sat down, that cautious hope in her eyes again. The kind that made me want to put a ring on her finger.
That first weekand the one that followed were a slow transformation. Not just to the apartment, but for us as well.
Marissa wasn’t the type to depend on anyone. She didn’t want to be taken care of. Didn’t want to be hovered over. She said she could manage on her own.
So I let her. Sometimes.
I backed off where it made sense. Let her handle her own schedule and didn’t interfere when she had video calls or deadlines. But I made sure she never had to worry about anything else. Groceries showed up when the fridge was almost empty. Her vitamins sat by her water glass every morning. Her favorite tea was stocked in the cabinet. Soft slippers next to the bed. A plush robe hanging in the bathroom.
She called it sweet.
I called it nonnegotiable.
She rolled her eyes the first time I walked her to the couch and tucked her blanket around her legs after she yawned. “You know I can do that myself, right?”
I dropped beside her, pulled her against me, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I know you can. Don’t care. I’m still doing it.”
She didn’t argue after that.
Our nights were the best part, though. At first, I tried to keep my hands to myself. She was pregnant. Tired. I didn’t want her thinking the only reason I wanted her in my bed was sex. So I held back. I just wrapped around her at night, pulled her in close, and stayed still.
Mostly.
Every time she shifted in her sleep, pressing her hips against me or tucking her cold feet between my calves, I had to fight not to groan. She was always warm and soft, smelled like soap, and wore my shirt.
I slept better than I ever had before, and I woke up every morning with her tangled in my arms. The world made sense again.
I wasn’t used to living with someone. Not since college, and even then, it wasn’t like this. Micah had been the only roommate I could stand back then. He kept his shit clean, didn’t play his music too loud, and never ate my protein powder.
But this was different.
Living with Marissa wasn’t like sharing a space. It was like claiming one. Putting roots down and watching them wrap around her, slow and sure and permanent.
I liked seeing her shit mixed with mine. Opening the fridge and seeing her favorite flavored water next to my sports drinks. I even liked the way she left a trail of socks, bobby pins, and half-used lotion tubes in her wake.
It made the place feel lived in. Like a home.
I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t ready to hear it yet.
So I showed her in the only ways I knew how. With my hands. My time. With a thousand small things she didn’t even notice I was doing.
Calling her doctor and double-checking the list of pregnancy-safe vitamins, switching our laundry detergent to the hypoallergenic kind, and buying blackout curtains for the bedroom so she could sleep better.
And I’d keep doing it. Every damn day until she realized what I already knew.
She caughtme looking at her belly one night while brushing her teeth.
We’d just finished dinner. She wore a tank top, and a sliver of skin was visible above her hips, which were wrapped in ridiculous fuzzy shorts that looked like they’d been made out of a Muppet. And I couldn’t stop staring.
“You keep looking at me like that,” she mumbled around her toothbrush, “and I’m going to develop a complex.”
“I’m just looking for…” I dropped to my knees in front of her and pushed her shirt up to examine her tummy. I didn’t want to tell her what I was trying so hard to see.
Proof. Physical evidence that I’d buried myself so deep in her body, I’d left a part of me behind. A bump, or even just the slightest swelling of her stomach.
