Chapter 18
eighteen
. . .
Jake
We’re lying in her bed, the sheets tangled around us, her body warm and relaxed against mine.
It’s been like this since Halloween, since that night on the dance floor when I felt something shift between us.
I tried to give her space after that, convinced myself I could be patient, wait for her to come to me.
I lasted three days.
Three days before I showed up at her door with more takeout and a flimsy excuse about needing to discuss baby prep.
She’d seen right through it, but I know the way to a pregnant woman’s heart—it’s carbs—and she’d let me in anyway.
Now we’ve fallen into this routine of dinners together, falling into bed, pretending we’re still just co-parenting.
But I’m pretty sure I’m not pretending anymore.
The room is quiet the way it only gets after dark, soft shadows across her purple walls, her hair fanned across my chest like she always meant to fall asleep there.
My hand traces slow patterns on her hip, and I’m rehearsing something in my head for the fiftieth time, trying to figure out how to ask without spooking her.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Thanksgiving is next week.”
She hums, half-asleep. “Mmm.”
“I’m going to Connecticut. To see my mom.”
“That’s nice.”
I take a breath. Just say it. “She really wants to meet you.”
Natalie’s whole body goes still. Not tense—just awake now. She lifts her head, hair sliding across my chest, and those dark eyes lock onto mine.
“You told your mom about me?”
“Of course I told my mom. She’s gonna be a grandmother.”
“Right. Yeah.” She sits up slightly, the sheet slipping to her waist. “That’s sweet, Jake. Really. But I already promised my dad I’d have dinner there.”
The disappointment hits harder than it should. “Oh. Okay.”
She must hear something in my voice because she reaches out and touches my arm, thumb brushing my skin like she’s trying to soften the blow. “Thank you for asking. That was really thoughtful.”
“My mom’s excited to meet you eventually,” I admit. She’s been asking about Natalie every time we talk, wanting to know how she’s feeling, if she needs anything, when she’ll get to meet the mother of her grandchild.
“Maybe over the holidays,” she says, but it’s noncommittal, a safe placeholder. “There’s a lot happening between now and then.”
“Right. The holidays.”
Silence settles, and I push down the urge to say more. I wanted her to say yes. Wanted to bring her home, show her where I grew up, let her see the house I picture when I think “family.” But she’s not ready. And pushing her now will only make her pull away.
“So tomorrow,” I say, shifting us back to safer ground. “Two o’clock, right? We find out the sex?”
“You don’t have to go if you’re busy.”
“Of course I’m going. It’s been on my calendar since the second we scheduled it.”
She smiles soft and warm in a way that makes my chest ache. “Super Dad strikes again.”
“Ha-ha,” I mutter, pulling her closer. “You nervous? About finding out?”
“A little. You?”
“Yeah. Excited-nervous.” I pause. “Do you have a preference? Boy or girl?”
She goes quiet, tracing mindless shapes on my chest with her fingertips. “I don’t know. I keep trying to picture both and I can’t.”
“Me neither.”
She lifts her head a little. “Did you always want kids?”
“Yeah.” I answer without hesitation. “Always. Even when I was a kid myself, I knew I wanted to be a dad someday. My dad worked a lot. I barely saw him when I was young, and I promised myself I’d never be like that.
If I ever had kids, they’d never have to wonder where I was or whether they mattered. ”
She listens quietly, her fingers pausing on my chest.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Honestly? No. Not really.” She shifts again. “I never saw myself as a mom. I was focused on my career, on getting a seat in a writers’ room, proving myself. Kids felt like something that would derail everything I was working toward.”
“And now?”
“I’m terrified,” she says softly. “But I want this. The baby. I want to be a good mom.”
The vulnerability in her voice does something to me. I can’t help myself. I reach up and cup her jaw gently, my thumb brushing her cheek. “You’re gonna be amazing, Nat. I know it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. “You’re already thinking about what’s best for her. That’s half of it right there.”
And the other half is me, I think but don’t say.
I’m already picturing myself as this baby’s dad.
Reading before bed, teaching how to ride a bike, showing up to every recital and game and moment that matters.
Can’t picture a future where I’m not there for every single second of this child’s life.
The thought terrifies me and steadies me all at once.
She lets out a breath of a laugh. “Her. You keep saying her.”
“Just a feeling.”
“What if it’s a boy?”
“Then I buy him a baseball glove and teach him how to throw a punch.”
She snorts. “You’re gonna teach our potential son violence?”
“Self-defense. Totally different.”
She’s smiling now and it makes my heart rate speed up. This. This is what I want. Not just tonight, but every night. Her in my bed, in my life, in my future.
“What if it’s a girl and she wants to learn how to box?” she asks.
“Then I’ll teach her. Equal opportunity sparring in this household.”
“Good to know,” she laughs.
The quiet settles again, warm and domestic, and I know I should be careful.
Know I’m getting in too deep. But lying here with her, imagining our daughter—or son—learning to walk, starting school, I can’t picture anyone else in this role.
Can’t imagine another man teaching our kid how to ride a bike or show up to their soccer games.
The thought of someone else being there for those moments makes me physically ill.
This baby is mine. This future is mine. And somewhere along the way, Natalie became mine too, whether she’s ready to admit it or not.
“How many kids did you picture having?” she asks.
“Two or three. Enough that they’d have each other.”
“That’s a lot of kids.”
“What about you? Now that you’re doing this—do you think you’d want more?”
“I don’t know. Ask me again after I’ve actually birthed one and survived it.” She pauses. “But…maybe. If the first one doesn’t destroy me.”
I picture it. Another baby. A house full of kids who look like her. Chaos and noise and love everywhere. Me and Nat, years from now, exhausted and happy and together.
“You’re gonna be great at this, Nat.” I tilt her chin up so I can see her face. “And I’m gonna be right there with you. Every step. Every moment. I’m not missing any of it.”
She searches my eyes for a long moment, and I wonder if she can see what I’m not saying. That I’m not just talking about the baby. That I’m talking about her, about us, about a life I’m already building in my head. Then she kisses me.
It starts soft. Sweet. Then her hand slides to the back of my head and her tongue searches for mine. I roll her onto her back, settling between her thighs, her legs falling open like she’s been waiting for this.
The truth is, we’re both pretending this is simpler than it is.
We’re circling the same conversation every time we’re together, skirting around it like it’s some sleeping animal we’re scared to wake.
We keep spending nights together, eating dinner together, falling into bed like it’s instinct then pretending it’s all just part of our “co-parenting plan.”
Neither of us is brave enough to say what’s actually happening. And I’m terrified that if I’m the one who names it first, she’ll panic and shut the door in my face.
So I keep it to myself. That she’s becoming part of my routine, part of my thoughts, part of my life in a way that doesn’t feel casual at all. I hold all of that back, because pushing her now feels like the fastest way to lose the little bit of closeness she’s giving me.
She wraps her legs around my waist, guiding me deeper, her hands sliding over my back like she can’t decide if she wants to hold me or anchor herself.
Her nails graze my skin, and it sends heat straight down my spine.
I move slowly, deliberately, matching her pace, letting her set the rhythm, like this is something we’ve been doing for years instead of stumbling into it by accident.
I brace my forehead against hers, breathing her in as her body lifts to meet mine, every part of her reaching for me like it’s second nature. Like she needs this as much as I do. Like we’re both trying to close a distance we keep pretending isn’t there.
“Jake,” she whispers, and the way she says my name ruins me.
I touch her like I’m telling her everything I can’t say. I kiss her like she’s something precious. And when she shatters beneath me, eyes locked on mine, I follow her, losing myself completely.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, breathing hard, her head on my chest, my hand in her hair. Eventually, I shift. “I should probably head out.”
“Okay,” she says, but her hand is still on my stomach, like she doesn’t want to remove it.
I kiss her forehead before I pull away and grab my clothes. She watches me get dressed from the bed, the sheet pooled around her waist, my T-shirt somehow already on her body again.
God, she looks good in my clothes.
“Thanks for coming over,” she says as I pull on my shoes.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
I sit on the edge of the mattress to tie my shoes, and she reaches out, her palm resting between my shoulder blades—warm, grounding, and significant in a way I’m trying not to read too much into.
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re coming with me tomorrow.”
I turn toward her. “Me too.”
We stare at each other for a beat that stretches and stretches.
“Text me if you need anything before then,” I say.
“I will.”
“Drive safe,” she says.
“Always do.”
I go to give her a quick kiss but she lifts onto her toes, fingers framing my face, and deepens it. The kind of kiss you feel in your ribs. When she finally pulls back, we’re both breathing harder than we should be.
“Goodnight, Jake.”
“Goodnight, Nat.”