Raven
By the end of the week, I stop pretending that my body isn’t changing. The sensation isn’t pain. If it were, I’d know what to do with it. This is something different.
There’s a constant awareness in my abdomen. But I don’t mention it to Sam, not yet.
We move through our days like we always do. Coffee in the mornings. Sam leaves for the clubhouse before noon most days.
My days are spent keeping busy around the cottage. I water the window boxes, deadhead the petunias, and check the tomatoes, even though I already know which ones are ready.
In the kitchen, I wipe down the counters and prep the food for our dinner later. Finally, I rearrange the thrifted frames on the hallway table for no reason other than I need something to do with my hands.
I tell myself I’m not thinking about it. But the truth is, I am.
By early afternoon, my energy crashes and the couch starts to look inviting. I’ve never been much of a nap person. Even when I’m tired, I push through. There’s always something to do. But twice this week, I’ve lain down just for a minute and woken an hour later.
When I wake this time, my mouth is dry, and the haze of sleep still clings to me. I push myself off the couch and head to the bathroom, splashing cool water on my face in an attempt to wake up—and pretend I didn't just lose another hour of the day.
The bathroom light is unforgiving. I lean over the sink, studying my reflection in the mirror. My hair is flattened on one side, a faint crease still marks my cheek from the couch pillow, and my eyes look heavy with sleep.
Straightening slowly, I turn to the side and lift the hem of my shirt. The difference is subtle, but enough that I can't argue it away anymore. My stomach is less flat than it was a month ago.
My breasts feel heavier too, sensitive enough that I wince when I unhook my bra at night. I've spent enough time reading about early pregnancy to recognize every one of those changes.
I open the drawer beneath the sink and take out the box with the pregnancy test and stare at it longer than I should. It would only take a few minutes, and I’d have an answer.
Two lines.
A reason to be waiting in the kitchen when Sam gets home, pretending nothing’s different for just a few minutes before handing it to him. I’d get to watch the realization spread across his face. The way his eyes would shift, and his mouth would try not to smile before it gave in.
I can already see it. The thought makes me smile, but then that smile fades.
I don’t want to know without him. I don’t want to stand in here alone, staring at two lines while he’s somewhere else.
If it’s happening, I want him beside me. I want us both watching that second line appear. I want to feel his hand tighten around mine when it does.
This isn’t mine to find out alone.
So, I slide the box back into the drawer, close it gently, and head back into the kitchen.
Sam’s at the counter when I walk in, sleeves pushed up, rinsing something in the sink.
I stop short. “When did you get home?”
“A couple of minutes ago.” He glances over his shoulder, then really looks at me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You don’t look fine. You’re pale.”
“I’m just tired.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my temple. “Sit,” he says. “I’ve got dinner.”
I don't argue as I settle into a chair at the table and watch him finish dinner.
The knife moves in an easy rhythm against the cutting board while something simmers on the stove. He reaches into the cabinet for a spice, tastes the sauce, and adds a little more without measuring.
My gaze lingers on him longer than I realize. Not because he's cooking. Not even because he looks good doing it. I think it's because I love him a little differently than I did a week ago.
He glances over his shoulder, catching me staring. "What?" he asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Nothing,” I say, not even trying to sound innocent.
He turns fully now, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “You’re looking at me like you want something.”
“Maybe I do.”
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, as he takes me in. Heat pools low in my stomach at the way his eyes darken.
“Dinner’s almost done,” he says.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He steps toward me, close enough that my knees brush his thighs. One hand settles at my hip.
“You’re supposed to be tired,” he murmurs.
“I was.”
His fingers slide slightly, just enough to make my breath catch.
He leans down, mouth brushing my ear. “First,” he says, “I’m feeding you.” His thumb presses into my waist, firm and possessive without being rough. “Then,” he adds quietly, “we’ll see how tired you are.”
I swallow. “If we have to.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, steady.
"We have to." His hand lingers for a beat before he steps back to the stove. "Your dad was at the clubhouse today."
"I didn't realize he was back in town," I say.
He flips the chicken. "He got back last night. Stopped by to see how his bike is coming along."
“And?”
“And he was really there to check on you.” His voice is calm. “He invited us over Sunday. Said it’s been too long since he saw you.”
I swallow. “I didn’t realize it’d been that long.”
“He misses you,” Sam says simply as he plates the food and sets them on the table, sitting across from me.
“Of course, we’ll go.”
He nods once. “I thought you’d say that.”
I pick up my fork but hesitate. “How’s the bike?”
“It’s almost there.” He leans back in his chair slightly. “Just a few more tweaks.”
“No,” I say, giving him a look. “Yours.”
A slow grin pulls at his mouth. “She’s fine.”
“I was starting to think there was something wrong with it,” I counter.
“There’s nothing wrong with my bike,” he says, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Why would there be?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, trying for casual. “I haven’t been on the back of it in forever. I was thinking maybe there was something wrong with it.”
That lands. His expression shifts and the confusion fades. “You miss it.”
“I miss being on it with you,” I correct quietly.
His jaw flexes. “You’re with me every day.”
“That’s different.”
He studies me for a long second. “How’s it different?”
“When we’re on the bike…” I hesitate, then push through. “You don’t hold anything back. It’s just us. No clubhouse. No noise. No distractions.”
His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he leans back.
“You think I hold back here?”
The question isn’t accusatory.
“I think you’re careful,” I say.
“And that’s a problem?”
“No.” My voice softens. “I just miss the way you reach back for my thigh when we hit a curve.”
His eyes darken slowly. “I do that so you don’t slide.”
“I know.”
“And you never slide.”
“I know that too.”
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, but there’s heat under it now. “You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Maybe.”
His gaze drifts over me, deliberate this time. “You worried I forgot how you feel back there?” he asks quietly.
“I was starting to wonder.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my bike,” he repeats, but his voice is different now. Lower. Sexier. “And I definitely haven’t forgotten how you feel.”
My pulse jumps. “You haven’t?”
“No.” He reaches for my hand. “I remember exactly how tight you hold on. Exactly where your hands settle.”
Heat spreads through me, steady and dangerous.
“Then maybe,” I say, keeping my voice light even though my body is anything but, “we should take her out before it gets too cold.”
“Before it gets too cold,” he echoes.
“Yeah.”
“If we go,” he says quietly, “you don’t get to complain about the temperature.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“Then you can warm me up after.”
That does it. His grip tightens just slightly.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because I might decide not to wait for the ride.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
The air shifts. His eyes drop to my mouth.
For a second, I think he’s going to forget dinner entirely. I get up and move to stand in front of him, palms sliding up his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath my hands.
Sam doesn’t move. “Raven,” he says quietly, but there’s no warning in it—only heat.
I close the distance until the fronts of our bodies almost touch and ease him backward into the chair. His eyebrows lift, surprised but not resisting. Then, I climb onto his lap slowly, one knee on either side of him, settling there like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
His hands come up automatically, landing on my hips.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” His voice is lower now.
“Maybe.”
My fingers curl into his shirt, tugging him closer.
“I missed you today,” I whisper. “I missed this.”
His hands slide higher, up my back, deliberate and warm.
"You've had this," he says.
I shake my head. "You've been handling me like I might break."
His expression softens. "That wasn't my intention."
"I know." I brush my nose against his. "But I miss the man who couldn't keep his hands off me."
His eyes search mine for a long moment before something shifts behind them. His grip tightens at my hips, firmer this time, drawing me closer.
"Is that so?" he asks, his voice dropping.
I answer by shifting against him, slow and deliberate.
His jaw tightens. "Raven."
I smile against his mouth. "What?"
A quiet laugh slips out of him as he shakes his head. "You know exactly what you're doing."
I kiss him again, deeper this time, letting my weight settle fully against him.
For a moment, he gives in, and his hands move. But even through the heat, I feel it. That steady restraint that is so him.
His hands slide down to my waist again. “Five more bites,” he murmurs against my lips.
I laugh softly. “You’re serious?”
“Very.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he says, brushing his thumb along my hip, “need to eat so you have enough energy for everything I plan to do to you tonight.
“I’m not that hungry.”
“You’re eating,” he says firmly. “Then I’m taking you to bed.”
Heat floods me all over again.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yeah.”
“And if I don’t?”
He leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. “Then I’ll feed you myself.”
That sends a shiver straight through me.
I pull back slowly, eyes locked on his. “Fine,” I whisper.
Sliding off his lap, I go back to my seat, trying to pretend I’m not completely undone.
Across the table, he watches me take a bite.
“Happy?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
His eyes don’t leave my mouth as I take another bite just to prove a point.
“Two,” he says quietly.
“You’re actually counting?”
“I told you I would.”
I roll my eyes, but I finish it. Then another.
“Three.”
His voice has changed. It’s lower now. I swallow slowly on purpose.
“Four,” he says.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling.”
“Am I?”
His gaze drifts down my throat as I take the fifth bite.
“Five.”
I set the fork down deliberately.
“There,” I say. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” The word is quiet.
He rises without taking his eyes off me. The distance between us disappears in two strides. One hand slides into my hair while the other cups my jaw, drawing me into another kiss. This one isn't teasing anymore.
“Sam,” I breathe his name against his lips, my fingers curling into the front of his T-shirt as he kisses me deeper.
His hand slips to my waist, pulling me closer before gliding beneath my thigh. He lifts me effortlessly.
A surprised laugh escapes me as my legs instinctively wrap around his waist. My arms circle his neck, holding on as he steadies me against him.
He draws back just enough for our foreheads to rest together, our breaths mingling in the space between us.
"Bedroom," he says, the single word rumbling deep in his chest.
"Yes."
He carries me down the hall without breaking the kiss, his steps sure, deliberate. My back meets the bedroom wall for half a second before he shifts us again, walking us toward the bed.
He lowers me onto the mattress, never letting more than a breath separate us.
His hands find the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head in one easy motion before dropping it somewhere on the floor without a second thought.
The lamplight traces the dark ink across his shoulders and the planes of his chest as he looks down at me.
The way he's looking at me steals the air from my lungs.
He leans in again, his forehead brushing mine before his lips find my jaw, then the curve of my neck. His touch is patient, but there's a quiet urgency beneath it, like he's done holding back.
I arch into him, wanting more. Wanting all of it.
And then it hits in a sudden, overwhelming wave. Heat rises fast up my throat, and I stiffen beneath him.
“Raven?” he says immediately, lifting his head.
“Move.” I push at his chest, sitting up too quickly. The room tilts. “I’m—” I swallow hard. “I need—”
The rest doesn’t come.
I scramble off the bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I drop to my knees in front of the toilet. The nausea hits hard and fast. There’s no stopping it.
Behind me, I hear him move. Fast. The bedroom door hitting the wall.
“Raven.”
I can’t answer.
Another wave hits, and I grip the porcelain, my body trembling as I’m sick.
Sam’s down beside me instantly. One hand presses steadily between my shoulders. The other gathers my hair, pulling it back, keeping it out of my face.
“I’ve got you,” he says, voice low and calm.
The wave crests and fades almost as quickly as it came, leaving me shaky and breathless. I breathe through it the best I can. My throat is burning, and my eyes are watering.
He stays beside me without flinching or hesitating. When it finally eases, I sag back on my heels, exhausted. Sam keeps his hand at my back, his thumb moving in slow circles.
His eyes search mine. "Tell me what you need."
I shake my head. "I don't know. I didn't expect that."
“Do you still feel sick?”
“A little.”
“Alright.” His voice is steady. “Stay there a second.”
He reaches for a washcloth, wets it, and presses the cool fabric gently to the back of my neck.
The contrast makes me shiver.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
His hand stills. “For what?”
“For ruining—”
“Don’t.” His tone is firm now, but not harsh. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Silence settles between us.
“You think it’s—”
I nod before he finishes. “Maybe.”
“You okay to get up?”
“I think so.”
He shifts closer, bracing a hand under my elbow as he helps me stand.
I wobble just slightly, and his grip tightens.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”
He keeps one hand at my back as I rinse my mouth at the sink. When I finally look up, our eyes meet in the mirror.
“You want to test tonight?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “No. I think we should do it in the morning.”
He studies my face in the mirror now.
“Together,” he says.
“Together.”
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, slow and unhurried.
We make our way back to the bedroom, the urgency from earlier giving way to something quieter. He pulls back the blankets and waits until I'm settled before sliding in beside me.
His hand finds my waist, then drifts lower, coming to rest against my stomach. I lace my fingers through his, holding his hand there.
Tomorrow, there will be two lines.