Page 59 of The Final Faceoff
She sighs as she finishes the last bite of food, like she’s just completed a marathon, then tilts her head at me.
“You’re still staring.”
I nod, because I’m past pretending. “Yep.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you planning something?”
I lean back in my chair, letting a slow smile tug at my mouth. “Maybe.”
She groans, dropping her head onto the table.
I don’t move.
I just sit there, watching her, memorizing this moment.
Because I have less than two months to make her see what I already know.
She belongs here, with me. I’m going to prove it to her, I’m just not sure how.
ChapterNineteen
Hailey
How to Fight Yourself and Win
If I were to list all the things I expected from life, pregnancy wouldn’t even be on the page. Not in the top ten. Not in the honorable mentions. Not scrawled in tiny letters in the margins. And yet, here I am, lying on Leif’s absurdly comfortable couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with the fact that my body—without my explicit permission, mind you—is manufacturing a person.
A person. With organs and limbs and, presumably, opinions.
The thing about pregnancy that no one talks about? The discomfort.
I’ve spent the last twenty minutes shifting, stretching, sighing dramatically—anything to stop the ache creeping up my spine like an unwelcome houseguest who refuses to take a hint. But it lingers, stubborn and unrelenting, the human equivalent of an overplayed song I can’t escape.
I already messaged my doctor, who, in a very calm and completely infuriating manner, assured me that this is normal. Something about Braxton something and my body getting ready. I stopped reading after normal because, respectfully, nothing about this is normal.
My life before this involved impromptu flights, interviews with people who survived actual war zones, and eating cold takeout at a hotel desk while editing footage at two in the morning. My life now involves fruit comparisons—your baby is the size of a kiwi—and suspicious pains that make me question my mortality.
Leif notices. Because of course he does.
“Okay, you’ve been sighing and fidgeting like an overtired toddler for the last half hour,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside me. His knee brushes mine, and I pretend I don’t notice. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, lifting my arm and studying the ceiling as if I’m searching for answers in the drywall.
Leif snorts. “And is existence treating you badly tonight?”
I open my mouth to answer, but right as I shift again—oh. Oh. There it is. A deep, insistent tug just above my lower back, the kind that makes me go still, fingers curling slightly like I can grasp onto something solid. My lips press together, face carefully schooled into neutrality, but Leif? Leif is a human lie detector with way too much time on his hands.
His gaze drops, sharp but unreadable. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“Nope.”
“Hailey.”
“Leif.”
His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile. “Are those the famous Braxton Hicks?”
“How do you even know about that?”
