I don’t move. My hands are still, my breath even but shallow. I don’t know what I expected from him. Shock, maybe. Silence. But not this.
His hand comes to my jaw, his touch steady, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. “You’re pregnant.” It’s not a question. His voice is quieter now, the edge he so often carries nowhere to be found.
I nod once.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop. Then he exhales slowly, the sound controlled but heavy. His other hand comes to my waist, his palm settling there like he means to anchor me in place.
“I’m glad,” he says. The words are simple, but there’s something underneath them, a weight I can feel in the way his voice catches faintly.
The knot in my chest tightens. My hands lift automatically, shaping the thoughts I’ve been carrying for days. I’m scared.
His eyes hold mine. “Of what?”
My signs are slower this time. I don’t know if I can do this.
“You can,” he says without hesitation, the certainty in his voice quiet but firm.
You don’t know, I sign, my fingers sharper now. The worry I’ve kept pressed down feels heavier suddenly. I don’t know what this will be for you, for us.
“I know exactly what it will be,” he says. His hand at my jaw slides back, fingers threading lightly into my hair. “It will be ours.”
The simplicity of it is almost startling. I feel my breath catch, my hands faltering before I can answer.
He watches me for a moment, his gaze steady. “You think I’m not ready for this. You think I’ll see it as something to be managed.” His voice is quieter now, but the conviction in it doesn’t fade. “But I want this. I want you. I want both of you.”
The words settle in me, low and certain, but the worry doesn’t vanish entirely. My hands move again, slower now. What if something goes wrong?
His expression shifts, his jaw tightening faintly, but his voice stays even. “Then we face it. Together.”
I look at him, my chest tight, the words I can’t form caught somewhere between my hands and my throat.
“You’ve been carrying this alone,” he says. It’s not an accusation, just a truth. His thumb brushes along my cheekbone, his touch steady, grounding. “You don’t have to anymore.”
I nod, the motion small but certain. My breath moves easier now, though my chest still feels heavy with everything I haven’t said.
He doesn’t press. He never does when he knows I’m holding something I’m not ready to release. Instead, he leans in, his mouth brushing mine in a kiss that’s slow, deliberate.
The tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders eases without my permission. His hand slides to the back of my neck, the other still firm at my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
The kiss deepens, but it’s different from others we’ve shared. There’s no edge, no urgency sharpened by the need to prove something. It’s quiet, steady, the kind of connection that feels like it’s meant to last.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “I’m glad you told me,” he says, his voice low.
I almost tell him I waited too long, but the thought feels distant now, blurred by the weight of his hand still holding me close.
He doesn’t let me go. His touch shifts, slow but deliberate, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine through the thin fabric of my dress. “Come upstairs,” he says quietly.
I don’t hesitate.
The walk is silent, the steady sound of our steps folding into the stillness of the halls. When we reach his room, he closes the door with the same controlled ease he carries everywhere, but there’s a shift in him now.
His hands find my waist again, guiding me toward the bed. I move without resistance, my breath catching faintly as he lowers me onto the mattress.
He doesn’t rush. His movements are measured, his gaze on mine even as his fingers trace the line of my jaw, the curve of my collarbone. It’s different this time. There’s no demand in the way he touches me, only something quieter, heavier.
When his mouth finds mine again, the kiss is slow. His weight settles over me carefully, as though he’s aware of every shift, every place where his body meets mine. His hand slides to my hip, his thumb pressing lightly into my skin like he’s grounding me there.
My fingers find his shirt, pulling at the fabric until it gives, the sound of it parting from his skin quiet in the stillness. He lets me, his own movements unhurried as he works at the fastenings of my dress.
