Samuel
She’s still asleep when I wake.
That isn’t unusual. What is unusual is how deeply she’s gone. Her body is curled in on itself, knees drawn slightly higher than usual, her breathing slow and deep.
I ease my arm from around her waist, slow enough that the mattress barely shifts. Normally, she’d stir. A soft sound. A hand reaching back for me without thinking.
Today, she doesn’t.
Sitting there for a second, I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the faint crease between her brows smoothed away in sleep. She looks peaceful.
I tell myself it's because she hasn’t stopped all summer.
Raven didn’t just move in. She transformed the whole place.
Every room bears her touch. Thrifted pieces chosen carefully, not for perfection but for feeling.
A chair she refinished herself. Lamps that cast the kind of light she likes.
Small things that shouldn’t matter but somehow do, until the cabin felt lived in. Ours.
The window boxes were her idea, too. Flowers she fussed over every morning, coaxing them into bloom. And the garden out back, rows she laid out herself. So many evenings I’d come home to find her hands in the dirt.
Raven doesn’t know how to half do anything. If she decides something matters, she gives it everything she has, even when it costs her more than she admits.
That kind of work would wear anyone down.
That’s all this is.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand.
The room is dim, early light just beginning to filter in through the curtains.
When I come back from the bathroom, she’s shifted, turned more onto her back.
One hand rests on her stomach now, palm spread like it landed there on instinct and decided to stay.
The sight stops me cold.
Pregnant.
The thought comes without warning. There’s no panic or disbelief. Just a quiet click of recognition, like something I didn’t know I was waiting for finally sliding into place.
It would explain a lot.
The way she moved last night, a fraction slower than usual. The way the tiredness seemed to hit her all at once. The way she leaned into me afterward, like her body had run out of argument and decided to trust me to hold the rest.
I stand there watching her breathe, watching the small, unconscious flex of her fingers against her skin, even in sleep. A protectiveness settles over me. The thought of her carrying my child fills me with a quiet, unexpected peace. I
It feels right.
Reaching for the blanket, she murmurs something under her breath but doesn’t open her eyes. Careful not to wake her, I pull it higher over her before I leave the room.
In the kitchen, I start the coffee and lean against the counter while it brews. The house is quiet, and I move through it without turning on many lights, already adjusting without thinking.
I’ve seen this before. Not personally, but enough to know the signs. The fatigue. The way a woman’s body starts making decisions without consulting anyone else. Raven’s never been one to complain, never been one to dramatize discomfort. If something feels off, she smooths it over and keeps moving.
I decide that I’ll bring it up when she wakes.
Steam curls from the mug as I take a sip, barely tasting it. My mind keeps drifting back to Raven in the bed, to the hand on her stomach. To the idea of her carrying something we created.
The thought roots itself in my heart with a fierceness that surprises me. A love so strong already there for a life that isn’t aware of me yet.
I set the mug aside and start pulling things out of the fridge.
She’ll need breakfast. Something light. Something she won’t have to force down.
Eggs. Toast. Fruit she picked herself from the tree out back.
I move quietly, keeping one ear angled toward the hallway, listening for any sign that she’s stirring.
This matters. Not just the words, but the moment.
I warm a plate in the oven, something I’ve never bothered with before, then smile at myself for it before carefully cracking the eggs. When the toast pops up, I butter it slowly before cutting it on the diagonal, the way she likes, even though she never asked me to.
Breakfast in bed.
I’m almost done when I hear her.
Bare feet on the floor. The soft shuffle of sleep still clinging to her movements. She appears in the doorway a second later, hair loose, eyes heavy, and wrapped in one of my shirts.
“You’re up early,” she says, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
I glance over my shoulder, caught mid-motion, with the spatula in my hand. The sight of her standing there does something to my chest.
“Morning,” I say.
“What’s all this?”
“Breakfast,” I reply. “Go sit. I’m almost done.”
She hesitates like she might argue, then yawns and leans against the doorframe instead, watching me the way she did last night. Quiet. Curious. Unaware that everything is different now.
I turn back to the stove, heart thudding just a little faster.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she says after a moment, softer now.
“I know,” I say, flipping the eggs anyway. “I wanted to.”
I slide the eggs onto the warmed plate, arrange the toast, and add the fruit.
Raven watches from where she stands, arms folded loosely, one hand absently brushing her stomach before she realizes what she’s doing and lets it fall away.
The sight nearly undoes me.
“Sit,” I say gently, nodding toward the chair. “Please.”
She smiles at that and finally pushes off the doorframe, padding toward the table. I carry the plate over and set it down in front of her.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
This is it.
Excitement hums just under the surface as I pull out the chair across from her, sit, and meet her eyes.
“Raven,” I start, my voice steady even as my heart pounds.
She looks at the food, then back at me.
“You’re being weird,” she says, but there’s no edge to it.
“Am I?” I ask.
“A little.” She nudges the fork, then pauses. “Not a bad weird.”
A quiet exhale leaves me as my nerves mix with excitement. This matters. I can’t afford to say the wrong thing and screw it up.
“Raven,” I start again, slower this time. Her attention sharpens immediately, eyes lifting to mine. “I woke up early. You were still asleep.”
“I’m shocked,” she says dryly.
I almost smile, but I keep going. “You were tired last night. More than usual.”
Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I spent a lot of time in the garden yesterday.”
“I know,” I say. “And the bath, and everything else. I get that.” I pause, choosing my words carefully, even though the conclusion feels solid. “But I’ve been thinking.”
That finally gets her full attention. She sets the fork down, head tilting slightly.
“About?”
“About you,” I say. “About us.”
Something shifts in the air between us. Not alarm. Just awareness.
“You’ve been moving a little slower,” I continue, gentle but sure. “You fell asleep the second we laid down. You didn’t even stir when I got up.”
She frowns, puzzled. “Okay…”
I reach across the table without thinking, my hand covering hers. “Raven,” I say again, quieter now, steadier. “I think you might be pregnant.”
Her breath catches, sharp and surprised, eyes dropping instinctively to where my hand rests over hers.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Her fingers stay under mine as her eyes search my face again, not for a way out, but like she’s recalibrating.
“Pregnant,” she says softly, testing the word.
“Yeah,” I say. “Pregnant.”
She lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “You really woke up and decided that, huh?”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “I woke up and noticed things.”
“Like me sleeping in?” she says.
“And being exhausted,” I add.
Her gaze drops, thoughtful now. “I have been tired.”
“I know.”
“And food’s been weird,” she admits.
That sends another spark of hope through me.
She looks down at the plate again and nudges the fruit with her fork. “You really made all this?”
“For you,” I say. “For both of you. If I’m right.”
She smiles. The kind that starts small and spreads. “You’re already acting like it’s real.”
I don’t deny it. “I am.”
“I don’t hate the idea,” she says as her fingers curl around mine.
My chest tightens in the best way. “Me neither,” I say. “Actually, I kind of love it.”
That makes her laugh, soft and surprised, like it slipped out before she could stop it. She presses her hand to her stomach again, slower now, intentional.
“If I am,” she says quietly, “that’s big.”
“It is,” I agree. “But we’re good at big.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and something settles between us. Not answers or certainty. Just a shared possibility.
“So,” she says after a beat. “What do we do?”
I squeeze her hand. “We eat breakfast. And then we find out.”