Hadley
The house smelled like coffee and new paint most mornings now. Cal had started making the coffee before he left for rehearsal, black for him, decaf for me because he read somewhere that caffeine past a certain point was “not ideal.” He said it like he’d always known, like he hadn’t Googled “safe caffeine pregnancy” at 2 a.m. two weeks ago while I pretended to sleep.
He came home earlier sometimes. Not every night, but enough that I noticed the pattern. Tuesday, he walked in at 8:47 with takeout from the Thai place I liked. Wednesday, he showed up at 9:12 carrying a bag of ginger candies because “I heard they help with the nausea.” He dropped the bag on the counter like it was nothing, then disappeared into the shower without waiting for a thank-you.
I thanked him anyway. Quietly. To the empty hallway.
Tonight, he came in at 7:38. I was on the couch folding Eli’s laundry when the door clicked. He kicked off his boots, hung his jacket, looked at me like he was trying to remember the right sequence of movements.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
He crossed to the couch, hesitated, then sat on the opposite end. Not close. Not far. Just… there.
Eli was in his room with headphones on, doing math homework. The tutor had left an hour ago. The apartment felt too quiet.
Cal rubbed his palms on his thighs. “How was the day?”
“Fine. Eli’s tutor said he’s finally getting quadratic equations without melting down.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
Silence stretched.
He glanced at my stomach. “Any kicks today?”
“Lots.” I set the laundry basket aside. “Want to feel?”
He nodded once. Moved closer, slow, like I might bolt. His hand hovered over the curve before settling lightly. Palm warm through my T-shirt.
A kick answered almost immediately. Hard. Right under his fingers.
His breath caught. “Jesus. That’s… aggressive.”
I laughed despite myself. “Yeah. He’s got your temper already.”
Cal’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Or yours.”
Another kick. Stronger.
He didn’t pull away. Just left his hand there, thumb brushing small, absent circles. Like he was testing if the contact would burn him.
I watched his face. The way his brows furrowed, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on words he didn’t know how to spit out.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Coming home. Asking. Touching. All of it.”
He looked at me then. Really looked. “Because I’m trying.”
“Trying what?”
“To not fuck this up completely.”
The honesty hit harder than I expected. I swallowed. “Okay.”
