Chapter 27
TUCKER
Sloane is extra beautiful when she's annoyed.
She's standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, scowling at her reflection, adorably frustrated. She's wearing one of my t-shirts—again—and a pair of leggings that are riding low under her belly.
"These don't fit anymore," she announces, tugging at the waistband.
"I can see that." I'm sprawled on the bed naked, supposedly checking my phone for team updates but really just watching her. "You know what would help?"
"Don't say it."
"Maternity clothes."
"You said it." She turns to glare at me. "I'm not ready for maternity clothes. That feels too... official."
I bite back a laugh. “Sunshine, you're visibly months pregnant with twins. It's pretty official."
"I know that." She tugs at the shirt—my shirt—which is also getting snug around her middle. "But maternity clothes are so... frumpy."
"They make cute maternity clothes now. I've seen them online."
Her eyes narrow. "You've been browsing maternity clothes?"
"Research." I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "Come on. Let me take you shopping. We'll find you stuff that fits and doesn't make you feel frumpy."
"I have schoolwork—"
"Which you can do later. I’ll help you. I’m very smart.” I stand and move toward her, wrapping my arms around her from behind, my hands settling on her belly. "Besides, you need pants. Unless you want to start wearing my sweatpants everywhere."
She leans back against me, and I feel the tension in her shoulders start to ease. "Your sweatpants are comfortable."
"They're also enormous on you." I press a kiss to her neck. "Let me do this. Let me take care of you in a non-suffocating way that respects your independence and also results in you having pants that fit."
She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "That was a very carefully worded request."
"I've been practicing."
"Fine." She turns in my arms to face me. "But I'm not buying anything with ruffles or bows."
"Deal."
I take her to Nordstrom, where my brother hooked me up with his personal shopper and a private entrance so no hockey fans would swarm us.
I like being out with her, like we’re a real couple.
We still haven’t had a big conversation.
With the holidays approaching, it seems like we really ought to.
But we’ve been fucking every time we’re both home and awake, and then she is too tired.
Sloane touches fabrics with deep suspicion. "These are basically regular pants with a stretchy panel," I point out, holding up a pair of dark jeans.
"The stretchy panel goes all the way up." She makes a face. "I'll look like I'm wearing a tube top on my stomach."
"Or you could try the under-belly ones." I grab another pair. "See? Normal waistband, just sits lower."
She takes them, examining the construction like she's looking for hidden flaws. I bend low to whisper in her ear, “Or you could just stop wearing pants. Make things easier for me.”
Sloane swats at me while a middle-aged woman with sepia skin and a warm smile approaches. “You must be Gunnar’s brother,” she says warmly, extending a hand. “Kamila.”
“Tucker.” I smile and gesture at my baby-mama. “And Sloane here is uncomfortable but terrified of looking dumpy.”
Sloane bites her lip and Kamila smiles. She gathers options for Sloane in a whirlwind—filling a cart with leggings and stretchy tanks I can’t wait to peel off later.
"Those are nice," she admits grudgingly.
"Right? And look—no bows."
She takes them from Kamila, feeling the fabric. "Okay, these are actually really soft."
"And they have pockets,” our shopper adds.
Sloane’s eyes light up. "Pockets?"
"Pockets," I confirm, showing her. "Deep ones."
"I'm trying these on."
I settle onto the bench outside the fitting rooms while Sloane disappears inside.
"She's lucky to have you," Kamila says, organizing the clothes on the rack. "A lot of men won't even come to the maternity section, but I know you Stag men are made different.”
"I like shopping with her." It's true. I like watching Sloane make decisions, like seeing what catches her eye, like being part of these small moments.
"Well, she's lucky anyway." Kamila heads back to the floor, leaving me alone with my phone.
I scroll through messages—Alder asking about dinner later this week, my mom sending photos of baby shoes she found, Mayhem sharing a ridiculous meme. Everyday life, carrying on.
The fitting room door opens. Sloane steps out wearing the dark jeans I picked, paired with a soft burgundy top that drapes over her belly without clinging.
I forget how to breathe.
"These actually fit," she says, turning to check her reflection. "Like, really fit. They're comfortable."
"You look incredible."
She glances at me, and something in my expression makes her blush. She toys with the sun locket at her throat. “It's just jeans and a shirt."
"It's you." I stand, moving closer. "You look beautiful. Happy."
"I am happy." She says it like she's surprised. "These pants don't dig into my sides. That makes me very happy."
"Good." I kiss her forehead. "Try on more things. I want to see everything."
Over the next twenty minutes, Sloane models outfit after outfit. The leggings with pockets make her squeal. A soft gray dress makes her look ethereal. She declares the joggers "life-changing." A denim jacket fits over her belly.
With each outfit, she relaxes a little more, and my own pants grow a little tighter. Smiles come easier. She even does a little spin in one particularly flattering dress, laughing when she nearly loses her balance.
"Okay," she finally says, emerging in her original clothes with an armful of selections. "I'm getting tired.”
“Then we should head home,” I tell her, adjusting myself as I stand. At the register, I pull out my credit card before she can reach for hers.
"Tucker—"
"My treat. For putting up with my nagging you to come shopping." I hand the card to Kamila before Sloane can argue. "Besides, I like buying you things."
"That's not—" She stops, takes a breath. "Thank you. I'll pay you back—"
"You absolutely will not." I take the bags from Kamila and steer Sloane toward the exit. "You're growing my children. The least I can do is buy you pants."
"Your giant children are the reason I need new pants in the first place."
"Exactly. My responsibility."
She's quiet on the walk to the car, but it's a comfortable silence. I load the bags in the back while she settles into the passenger seat.
"That was actually fun," she says as I start the engine.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She's smiling, small, and genuine. "I haven't done something that normal in a long time. Just... shopping. Like a regular person."
"You are a regular person."
"You know what I mean." She rests her hand on her belly, where the babies are clearly moving. "Everything feels so big and scary and complicated. But today was just... nice."
I reach over and take her free hand. "We can do nice. We're good at nice."
"We really are."
Back at the apartment, Sloane disappears into the bedroom to put away her new clothes. I'm in the kitchen pulling together a snack when she emerges wearing the leggings with pockets and a soft tank top.
"Comfortable?" I ask.
"So comfortable." She moves behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist. "Thank you for today."
"Anytime." I turn in her embrace. "Seriously. We should do more stuff like this."
"I'd like that." She goes up on her toes—not far, given her current center of gravity—and kisses me.
It starts soft. Sweet. A thank you kiss that tastes like happiness.
Then her hands slide under my shirt.
"Sloane—"
"I need you," she says against my mouth. "Right now."
"Right now?"
"Right now." Her fingers work at my belt. "Tucker, please. I've been thinking about this since you called me beautiful in the store."
"You are beautiful—"
"Less talking. More sex."
I don't need to be told twice.
I lift her onto the kitchen counter, and she immediately wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me closer. Those new leggings hit the floor in record time. My jeans follow.
"Bed?" I manage, even though the counter is right here and she's already reaching for me.
"No time." Her breathing is ragged. "Just—Tucker, please—"
I slide into her in one smooth motion, and she gasps, her head falling back.
I grip the counter on either side of her hips, giving her what she needs—fast, hard, exactly how she wants it.
Although, I might like it slow and gentle.
Maybe with her cuddling me and falling asleep together, my hands on her stomach.
"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes, just like that—"
It's quick and desperate, and this is what she needs. She comes first, her whole body tensing around me, my name on her lips. I follow seconds later, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in.
We stay like that for a moment, both catching our breath, her fingers threading through my hair.
Eventually, she slides down and pats my chest, heading toward the bedroom. "I'm going to take a nap now. That was exhausting."
"Which part? The shopping or the sex?"
"Yes."
I watch her go, this woman who's building my future, who lets me buy her pants, who pulls me into spontaneous kitchen sex and then announces naptime like it's nothing.
Something in my chest expands, warm and certain and almost frightening in its intensity.
This is it, I think. This is what I want, every day, for the rest of my life.
Shopping trips. Kitchen sex. Laughter and normalcy and the simple pleasure of being together.
I'm on the cusp of something perfect.
And for once, I'm not going to fuck it up.