Something flashed in his eyes -- there and gone in an instant.“Sometimes,” he said.“When no one’s looking.”
The moment stretched between us.I set the dishcloth down and dried my hands on a nearby towel.
“I’d like that,” I said.“The ice cream.”
He moved to the freezer, his back to me as he reached for the container on the top shelf.I watched the angle of his shoulders, the control he brought to even this smallest of actions.
The ice cream was exactly what he’d promised -- not the cheap kind that tasted like freezer burn and sugar, but the good stuff that melted on your tongue and left your mouth cool.We ate it standing at the kitchen counter, not talking, just the occasional soft sound of spoons against ceramic.When we finished, Nitro washed the bowls and set them in the drying rack with the same precision he brought to everything.Then he looked at me across the kitchen, his expression giving away nothing, and said, “There’s a movie on if you want to watch it.”
It wasn’t really a question -- not a command either, but something in between that gave me the choice without making me ask for it.I nodded and followed him to the living room.
The space had transformed in the fading light -- shadows gathering in the corners, the single lamp by the armchair casting a warm glow across the hardwood floor.Nitro crossed the room with the same restrained confidence he brought to everything -- no wasted energy, no unnecessary sound -- and pressed a button on the remote.The screen flickered to life, colors washing across his face in patterns that came and went too quickly to track.
He put on the movie we’d discussed.The sound came up just enough to fill the room without overwhelming it, dialogue drifting through the quiet without demanding our attention.
Neither of us spoke.The movie played on -- some action thing with car chases and explosions, the kind of background noise that asked nothing of its audience.I watched the movie without following the plot, letting the movement on the screen distract me from the awareness sitting heavy between us.Nitro kept his focus on the television, expression neutral, but the angle of his body told a different story.He was as aware of me as I was of him -- of the space separating us on the couch, of every inch between his shoulder and mine on the worn leather.
Time passed -- ten minutes, maybe fifteen.My body, which had been held with such tension since I’d walked through the gate, began to relax by fractions -- shoulders dropping, spine finding a curve that didn’t hurt, breath coming easier in my lungs.The twins were quiet, not the usual shift and roll that had been keeping me up at night, just the subtle presence of two bodies finding their rhythm with mine.The living room was warm without feeling stuffy.
At some point, without meaning to, I drifted sideways until my shoulder rested against Nitro’s arm.
It wasn’t dramatic.I didn’t consciously decide to close the distance or think through what it meant.My body simply gave up on maintaining the separation we’d been holding all evening.My shoulder pressed against the solid warmth of his bicep, and for one suspended moment, neither of us moved, both caught off guard by the contact.
I didn’t pull away.I couldn’t have explained why if asked.I only knew moving would feel worse than staying where I was.My attention remained on the television, my breathing gradually syncing with the steady rise and fall of his chest beside me while my hands went still in my lap.
Nitro stayed exactly where he was, his body warm and solid against mine, his attention still ostensibly on the movie playing in front of us.
Then he moved slightly, and I felt it immediately through the solid line of his body against mine.His hand lifted from his thigh and hovered over my belly for one suspended beat, the hesitation visible in the held stillness of his arm, before it settled.
His palm came to rest against the curve of my stomach, fingers spread wide, and he went completely still.It wasn’t the controlled attention he usually carried, but something slipping through the cracks.Something closer to awe.His jaw went loose, his attention dropped from the television to his own hand, and the expression that crossed his face was one I hadn’t seen on him before -- unguarded, stripped of the certainty he wore like a second skin.
I watched his face in the shifting glow of the television instead of the movie itself -- the sharp line of his profile, the focus in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips when his breath caught.His hand stayed warm against my stomach through the thin cotton of my shirt, heavy and grounding against the curve that had quietly become the center of both our lives.For one long moment, neither of us moved, both caught off guard by the simple touch.
Then his thumb moved once across my belly, slow and almost absentminded, as if his hand had found where it belonged before the rest of him caught up.The twins shifted beneath his palm, and his fingers flexed slightly against the fabric of my shirt.
My hand moved without my deciding it should -- drifted to rest beside his on my stomach, present in a way that made it clear I’d seen what was happening.Our fingers didn’t touch -- just existed in the same space, separated by millimeters that might as well have been miles for all the attention either of us was paying to the distance.
The movie kept playing in the background -- car chases, explosions, dialogue neither of us followed.The living room stayed quiet except for the low murmur of the television and the uneven rhythm of our breathing, gradually falling into sync.
Neither of us spoke.Words would have ruined it anyway.His hand rested on my belly, my body leaned into his side, and the distance we’d been fighting to maintain finally gave way to something softer and harder to ignore.So we stayed exactly where we were -- his palm warm through the thin cotton of my shirt, my shoulder solid against his arm, the twins shifting beneath the point where our hands almost touched -- and let the quiet do the rest.
Nitro’s hand didn’t move from my belly.My weight didn’t shift away from his side.We sat in the dim light of the television, his palm warm through my shirt, my breathing slowed to match the rise and fall of his chest, and existed, simply and completely, inside the moment without trying to name it or hold it at arm’s length.
It was enough.For now, it was enough.
Chapter Eight
Willa
I sat with my shoulder pressed against Nitro’s side, his hand a warm weight against the curve of my belly.The lamp by the armchair cast a soft amber glow across the living room.My body felt different -- heavier, looser -- the strain I’d carried since arriving finally starting to unwind.
I’d been watching Nitro instead of the television for longer than I wanted to admit, studying the hard line of his jaw, the faint crinkle near his eyes whenever something held his full attention.
He stayed perfectly still, but not in the cold, controlled way he carried himself at Church or around the club.This felt quieter.Softer.His jaw had loosened, his thumb moving once across my stomach in a slow, absent sweep over the fabric.His gaze stayed fixed on his own hand like he was trying to understand something too big to put into words yet.The hard edge I’d seen in him since I walked through the gate had eased, replaced by something raw enough to tighten my chest.Awe, maybe.Or disbelief finally giving way to reality.
The silence between us carried no tension.No pressure to speak or define what was happening.We simply sat there together, his hand on my belly and my shoulder pressed against his arm, both of us understanding the moment mattered without needing to say it out loud.
Then Nitro turned his head and caught me already watching him.Neither of us looked away.
