Page 189 of The Thief
Something in my tone makes him go very still. "What kind of talk?"
"The kind where you might want to sit down."
He doesn't sit. He just looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much, waiting for whatever bomb I'm about to drop.
"I went to the doctor yesterday," I begin.
"Are you sick?" The concern in his voice is immediate, fierce. "What's wrong? What did they say?"
"Nothing's wrong. I'm not sick." I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. "I'm pregnant."
The words hang in the air between us like something fragile and precious. Freddie's face goes through a series of expressions: shock, disbelief, something that might be joy.
"Pregnant," he repeats slowly.
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Very sure. Blood test, the whole works."
He's quiet for a long moment, processing. I can practically see his mind working, calculating due dates and security concerns and all the ways a child will change everything.
"How do you feel about it?" he asks finally.
"Terrified. Excited. Like my heart might explode from how much I already love them."
"Good. That's good."
"Is it? Because I have no idea what I'm doing, Freddie. I don't know how to be a mother, how to raise a child in this world. What if I'm terrible at it?"
He moves then, closing the distance between us in two quick steps. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize I was crying.
"You're going to be incredible," he says with absolute certainty. "Fierce and protective and loving. Everything a child needs."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I know you. I know your heart, your strength, your capacity for love. Any child would be lucky to have you as their mother."
The tears come harder now, relief mixing with happiness mixing with the overwhelming reality of what's happening to us.
"We're having a baby," I whisper.
"We're having a baby," he confirms, and when he smiles, it transforms his entire face. It makes him look younger, lighter, like someone who's just been given the greatest gift in the world.
He kisses me then, soft and wondering, like he's afraid I might disappear if he's too demanding. But I want demanding. I want desperate. I want all of him, all of this feeling that's too big for my body to contain.
"Upstairs," I breathe against his mouth.
"You sure? You should rest, take it easy?—"
"Freddie. Upstairs. Now."
He doesn't argue after that.
Freddie undresses me slowly, reverently, like I'm made of spun glass. His hands shake slightly as they move over my still-flat stomach, over the place where our child is growing.
"I can't believe it," he murmurs. "I can't believe we made something this perfect."
