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“I’ve got a jacket in the car I could grab. Or I could step out if that’ll make you more comfortable.”

“No, it’s fine,” I grumbled and crossed my arms, frustrated at myself for feeling awkward about this. Here was this fine-ass man, a nice man, who knocked me up and was excited to be a dad, and I was completely unappreciative of it because I was so braced against falling in love with him.

Which was ridiculous. A bit of hand holding and moderately uncontrolled hormones weren’t going to make me fall for this man and expose myself to that kind of loss. I was being too cautious, too reactive.

And to be honest, I needed to get over some of my weird hang ups, specifically when it came to accepting his money. I did some light googling about average medical costs for an "uncomplicated" pregnancies and jeez, no wonder birthrates were down.

“Niall, about—”

“Hi, Leah, how’re you doing?” a nurse asked as she entered the room.

“All right,” I mumbled. She wheeled her laptop tray thing around and sat across from me, tapping a few times before looking up.

“Any changes to your medical record?”

“Nope.”

“And the date of your last period?”

“Uh.” I looked up at the ceiling as I thought. “Sometime around August 8th.”

“May baby,” she said with a little smile before turning to Niall. “And your history, Mr. Walton?”

“Oh he’s not —” I started to say, but stopped when Niall got up to hand over a stuffed folder.

“I wasn’t sure what to bring in, so I just brought in my last few blood draws and physicals. But there’s no family history of any types of cancers, thyroid diseases, or any other genetic things that I’m aware of.”

“Wow, did you bring in an autobiography?” I asked, leaning over the nurse's shoulders to read. But it was all medical charts, so I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

“You’re lucky your husband has his records,” the nurse said with a little laugh. “Most men know next to nothing about their family’s medical history, let alone have gotten a physical done after high school.”

“Ah, well the physicals are part of my job, so …” Niall trailed off and scratched the back of his head bashfully. And while it was interesting how he couldn’t take a little praise, I was more intrigued by how, yet again, he didn’t correct her about being my husband.

I guess it’d take more time and energy to explain our situation.

It was fine and didn’t do anything to my nervous heart.

Totally fine.

And it stayed totally fine as the doctor came in and did the exam. It stayed fine as I talked about my morning sickness and tender breasts and Niall took notes. I was even fine when he brought out a clipboard and asked my gyno dozens of questions.

It was when my doctor started going over the more serious side effects of pregnancy, the tiny font shit at the end of a medicine ad, and Niall took my hand and I didn’t move away, that’s when I lost it. My mind went completely static, the only thing I could concentrate on was Niall’s fucking hand. The callouses, the way he shook as he took notes, the warmth.

I don’t know if it was because I was pregnant or what, but I felt my feet slip. Not much, just an inch or so into what people called falling in love. But that little slip made my heart rate skyrocket.

So with my heart completely in my throat, I spent the rest of the appointment in a daze. Didn’t ask any questions, didn’t contribute to the conversation, and took whatever next appointment date they offered without checking my calendar.

It wasn’t until we got outside, Niall still holding my hand, that oxygen made its way back to my brain.

“Why would you do that?” I asked as I yanked my hand away. He looked back at me, arm full of papers and some sample shit the doctor gave me, eyes wide and confused. And fuck, it was so unfair he had that natural, good boy look, the look that said he could do no wrong. I enjoyed it once and now it was going to haunt me, break me.

“Do what?” he asked softly. I could see the switch flip in him, the confusion melting to worry, his brow furrowing as he moved into fix-it mode. He took a look around and set everything he was holding on the hood of some random car and took my shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“That! Stop doing that.” I knocked his hands off me. “I told you I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“I …” He let his hands drop to his sides, eyes on my shoes. “I know that.”

“But do you understand it?”