Page 25 of Pregnant in Plaid
I pull out eggs, bacon, and bread. Start the coffee—decaf, because I spent hours last night listening to pregnancy podcasts while staring at the ceiling. Apparently pregnant women can have some caffeine, but not too much. The podcast lady was very specific about that.
The bacon sizzles in the pan, filling the cabin with the smell of breakfast and normalcy, like this is just another Saturday morning and not the day after my entire life changed. I crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them harder than strictly necessary. Bread in the toaster. Orange juice poured. Everything precise, controlled, because if I can control breakfast, maybe I can control the panic that's been threatening to swallow me whole since yesterday.
When everything's ready—eggs fluffy, bacon crispy, toast perfectly golden—I stand there staring at the two plates like they might have answers.
She's still asleep. I should let her sleep. Pregnant women need rest, right? That was definitely mentioned in at least three of those podcasts.
But I find myself walking down the hallway anyway, stopping at her closed door.
I shouldn't open it. That's creepy. That's a violation of privacy and boundaries and all those things normal people respect.
I open it anyway. Just a crack.
She's asleep on her side, buried under the quilt, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her dark hair spreads across the pillow, and even in sleep, there's a tension in her face that makes my chest ache. Like even unconscious, she's worried about something.
The curve of her stomach is visible under the blanket, and the reality of it hits me all over again. My baby. Our baby. Growing right there, existing, completely oblivious to the chaos their mere existence has caused.
I watch her for longer than I should, trying to reconcile this woman—vulnerable, sleeping, pregnant—with the sharp-tongued, confident woman I spent one unforgettable night with months ago. Both versions are real. Both versions are carrying my child.
And I have no idea what I'm doing.
Her eyes open catching me standing in the doorway like a creeper.
"Good morning," I say quickly, before she can scream or throw something. "I made breakfast."
She blinks at me, clearly still half-asleep. "You're watching me sleep?"
"No. Maybe. Briefly." I hold up my hands in surrender. "In my defense, I also made food. So, it's less creepy stalker, more concerned... person who happens to live here."
"That's not better."
"Yeah, I'm realizing that now." I back up a step. "Breakfast is ready. Take your time. I'll just be in the kitchen, questioning my life choices."
I hear her laugh—a soft, sleepy sound—as I retreat down the hallway.
Ten minutes later, she appears in the kitchen doorway, looking rumpled and beautiful and deeply skeptical of the spread I've laid out on the table.
"You made all this?" she asks.
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm capable of basic food preparation."
"It's just..." She gestures at the table. "This is a lot of food, Trace."
"You're eating for two." I pull out a chair for her. "Sit. Eat. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"No, but I listened to approximately six hours of pregnancy podcasts last night while I couldn't sleep. The lady was very clear about proper nutrition."
She sits, eyeing the bacon like it might be a trap. "You're taking this very seriously."
"Someone has to." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I see her flinch. I soften my tone. "Sorry. I just—you're pregnant. With my baby. And I missed seven months of it. So yeah, I'm taking it seriously."
She picks up a piece of bacon, takes a bite. Her eyes close and she makes a noise that does things to my blood pressure that are deeply inappropriate given the circumstances.
"Good?" I ask, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"So good. I've been trying not to eat too much bacon because everyone on the internet says pregnant women shouldn't have nitrates, but this is..." She takes another bite, and there's that noise again. "This is worth the risk."
