24. Shanay
Twenty Four
Shanay
I knew something was off when the smell of Mike’s coffee made my stomach turn.
Which is insane, because I’d been drinking it like water since we got back from the honeymoon. That man makes the best damn cup of coffee in Colorado. But this morning? One whiff, and I bolted for the bathroom.
I rinse my mouth and lean on the sink, breathing slow.
Then I freeze.
I do some quick mental math.
And then I whisper, “Oh… oh shit.”
—-
I don’t overthink it.
I know my body. I know how I’ve felt since the second night we got back.
So I find the test buried in the cabinet, curse myself for not throwing it away like a normal person, and take it—hands shaking, heart thudding, breath stuck somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
It doesn’t take long.
Two lines. Bold. Strong. Immediate.
I cover my mouth.
My hands are trembling.
“Oh, my god.”
—-
He’s in the kitchen when I come out, barefoot and shirtless, flipping eggs with the kind of focus most people reserve for disarming bombs.
Mike Costa in his natural habitat: muscles out, beard scruffy, boxers low on his hips, grumbling to himself about olive oil.
And all I can think is—he’s going to be a dad.
I bite my lip and lean on the doorframe. Watch him. Feel something warm bubble up in my chest.
“Smells good,” I say, voice light.
He glances over. “You okay?”
“Better now.”
—-
I sit at the table and try to play it cool. Which is… impossible. My cheeks are burning.
He slides a plate in front of me and sits across the table.
“You’re staring.”
“Just thinking.”
“Uh huh.” He narrows his eyes. “Thinking about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I sip my water. “Names. Maybe furniture. A little future Costa.”
He stills. Fork halfway to his mouth. Brow twitching.
“I—what?”
I shrug. “Like… maybe we should start prepping for a third coffee mug. A tiny pair of boots.”
He sets the fork down. “Shanay.”
I slide the test across the table.
He stares at it. Silent.
Then he looks up—eyes wild, mouth parting like he’s forgotten how to speak.
“I’m pregnant,” I whisper, voice shaking. “It’s yours.”
Like that needed clarifying.
—-
Mike moves so fast the chair scrapes the floor.
The next second, I’m in his arms, lifted onto the table, his hands cradling my face like I might vanish.
“Baby,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
“I didn’t mean to spring it on you—”
“You think I don’t want this?” His thumbs brush my cheeks. “You think I wouldn’t beg for this if I could?”
My breath catches. “You’re not freaking out?”
He drops to his knees.
Palms spread wide across my belly.
“No,” he growls. “I’m claiming it.”
He kisses my stomach. Then again. Then higher—until his mouth is back on mine and I can’t stop shaking.
—-
He lifts me again—this time to the couch—and lays me down like I’m glass.
“Mike—”
“Shh. Let me.”
He peels off my sleep shirt, trailing his fingers over my curves, reverent and raw.
“You’re carrying my baby,” he mutters, pressing his lips to my hip. “You think I’m not gonna spend the rest of my life worshipping this body?”
I moan as his mouth finds its way between my thighs.
“You’re perfect,” he rasps. “All of you. Every inch. And now it’s all mine.”
He eats me like he’s starved—slow, possessive, relentless.
And when he finally climbs over me, cock hard, eyes wild?
He sinks in bare and groans like he’s home.
—-
“Gonna keep you pregnant,” he mutters against my mouth. “Soft and full and glowing for me.”
“You’re insane,” I pant.
“You’re mine.”
And when I come with him deep inside me, body shaking, belly blooming with new life?
I know he’s right.
Because I’m his.
Forever.