Page 82 of Pregnant in Plaid
"I really do."
He moves slowly, carefully, checking in with every shift. "Is this okay? Too much? Not enough?"
"Stop asking and just—" I push back against him, and he gets the message.
We find a rhythm that works—slow and steady, his hand on my hip, my hand covering his. It's different from that night in June. Less frantic, more intentional. Like we're learning each other all over again, but better this time. Deeper.
"You're perfect," he murmurs against my shoulder. "So perfect."
"I'm sweaty and enormous."
"You're carrying our baby. You're creating life. That's the definition of perfect."
I want to argue, but then he does something with his hips that makes me forget how to form words. My breath catches.
"There?" he asks.
"There. Definitely there."
He keeps that angle, that pace, and I can feel the tension building. It's been so long—months of beingpregnant and stressed and scared—and now it's just this. Just us. Just the feeling of being wanted, being cherished, being seen.
"Trace—"
"I've got you," he says. "Let go. I've got you."
And I do. I let go of the fear, the control, the need to have everything figured out. I let go and fall, and he catches me just like he promised.
The release crashes through me, and I bite down on my pillow to muffle the sound. He follows moments later, his hand tightening on my hip, my name on his lips.
We lie there afterward, breathing hard, tangled together. The baby kicks between us, as if to say,Really? You two couldn't wait until I was born for this?
"Sorry, raspberry," I whisper, and Trace laughs.
"Our kid is going to grow up so disturbed," he says.
"Probably. But at least it'll have parents who actually like each other."
He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, and there's something in his expression that makes my heart squeeze.
"I love you," he says. "I know I said it before, but I need you to hear it again. I love you. Not just because of the baby. Because of you."
"Trace—"
"Stay," he says. "Stay here. Be with me. Let me be there for both of you. Let's be a family."
The words settle over me, warm and terrifying. But underneath that warmth is a cold thread of fear.
"This is all still so new for you," I say quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"The baby. Us. This whole situation." I shift to face him better. "What if—what if six months from now, you realize this isn't what you wanted? That the reality of a screaming baby and sleepless nights and my stretch marks and?—"
"Stop." He touches my face. "Do you really think that little of me?"
"It's not about you. It's about—" I struggle to find the words. "It's about me protecting myself. Protecting the baby. I've built a whole life on being independent, on not needing anyone. And now I'm lying here, completely dependent on you, and it terrifies me."
"You're not dependent on me. We're partners. There's a difference."
