7. Lucas
LUCAS
“Well, the kid is definitely stubborn.”
Harmony looks down at the ultrasound photo in her hand as we walk out of the exam room. “He was asleep, Lucas.”
“He refused to move for twelve straight minutes while Dr. Korman tried to get a better angle.”
“Because he was comfortable.”
“Stubborn,” I repeat.
“Comfortable.”
I reach past her to push open the door to the hallway, then hold it while she steps through. She doesn’t comment on small gestures like that anymore. She used to, but now she just walks through, close enough that her shoulder brushes my chest.
That’s how most things are between us lately. Easy.
Too easy, sometimes.
Dr. Korman knows we aren’t together. She knows we’re not married.
Somehow that makes every appointment feel both simpler and stranger.
Harmony and I show up together, sit side by side, ask questions in turns, schedule the next appointment around my shifts, and leave with ultrasound pictures tucked into the folder I bought two months ago because Harmony kept creasing them in her purse.
Harmony pauses near the front desk, squinting down at the little black-and-white picture again.
She’s very pregnant now, round beneath a loose cream sweater, her hair pulled back because she said it was annoying her neck this morning.
I know things like that now. I know which tea doesn’t turn her stomach, which side her hip aches on when she sleeps wrong, and that she keeps crackers in the glove compartment of her car because nausea still likes to ambush her without warning.
I know all of that, and I still don’t know whether I’m allowed to touch her without her reaching first. So I don’t.
I stand beside her while she schedules the next appointment, my hands in my pockets because that’s the safest place for them to be. When the receptionist offers the first Thursday of next month, Harmony glances over at me.
“You’re on shift, right?”
“Until seven.”
“Friday?”
“Open.”
She turns back to the receptionist. “Friday works.”
The receptionist smiles as she types. “You two are very coordinated.” She hands over the appointment card, still smiling, and Harmony tucks it into the folder with the ultrasound photos.
We step outside into the late morning sun, and I walk Harmony to her car.
When we reach it and she turns toward me to say goodbye, her eyes stay on mine for half a beat too long, and I have to fight the urge to step closer.
I’ve had months of practice.
Months of appointments, food runs, late-night texts, and sitting on her parents’ living room floor assembling a crib while her dad pretended not to supervise. Months of watching her become a mother in small increments while trying to be useful without crowding her. Months of wanting more.
By every measure, we’re together. I go to appointments. I assemble furniture. We talk almost every day, and somehow I know more about the way she sleeps, eats, worries, and laughs than I know about anything else in my life.
But I don’t touch her. I don’t call her mine.
I clear my throat. “You heading back to your parents’ place?”
She shakes her head. “I need to stop and buy a few things first.”
“What kind of things?”
She glances down at herself with a sigh. “Maternity clothes. I can’t keep pretending that leggings and whatever tent-like shirt still fits is a wardrobe.”
“You look good,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “That was careful.”
“It’s true.”
“It was also careful.”
“Harmony.”
“What?”
I hold her gaze and make myself keep my voice even. “You look really good.”
Her lips part slightly, and I know she hears the restraint because I see the color rise in her cheeks. Meanwhile, the rest of the sentence sits behind my teeth. You look gorgeous. You look so beautiful it makes it hard to think.
I don’t say it. And she looks away, adjusting her purse strap as if it’s necessary for her to do in that exact moment. “I still need clothes.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say.
She blinks. “You want to go maternity shopping?”
“Sure.”
“Lucas.”
“What?”
“You’re a firefighter. A captain. A grown man with presumably better things to do than sit in a maternity boutique while I try on elastic-waist jeans.”
“I’ve got the afternoon off, and elastic-waist jeans sound riveting.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Maybe.” I open the passenger door of her car, then lean my forearm against the roof. “But I’m still coming.”
Her smile curves slowly. “You’re weirdly willing to suffer through things.”
I grin and gesture for her to get in. “C’mon. Let’s go shopping, Harmony.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she climbs into the car. “Fine. But if you complain once, I’m leaving you there.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
That’s also a lie. I would complain about a thousand things if it kept her smiling at me like that.
Harmony walks into the maternity shop ahead of me, then immediately slows down as if the sight of all the clothes makes the entire situation too real.
There are dresses, stretchy jeans, nursing tops, bras, and rows of tiny pastel signs dividing sections.
Her fingers absentmindedly fiddle with the strap of her purse, and I fight the urge to reach for her hand.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She lets out a small breath. “Just having one of those moments.”
“What moments?”
“The kind where I remember I’m shopping for clothes because my body is being slowly taken over by a baby.”
“Our baby,” I say.
Her eyes flick to mine.
I cough. “But yeah. I can see how that would be a moment.”
She looks like she’s going to say something more, but doesn’t. The clerk, an older woman with short hair and bright glasses, greets us from behind the counter and tells Harmony to let her know if she needs help. Harmony thanks her, then starts moving through the racks.
I follow behind, holding whatever she hands me. She passes me a pair of jeans, then a dress, then three shirts draped over one hanger. I take every piece without comment.
“Still having fun?” she asks.
“Time of my life.”
She laughs and hands me another shirt. The sound follows me while she disappears into the dressing room. I sit on a small upholstered bench near the curtained-off area with Harmony’s purse beside me.
The clerk walks past carrying a stack of clothes to put back on the racks. She glances over, smiles, and says, “When is your wife due?”
My wife.
For a second, I can’t answer. The phrase settles deep in my chest, aching in a place I’ve been trying hard not to touch.
I don’t correct her. I know I should. Harmony would probably give me hell if she heard it, and she’d be right. But the word feels too good to hand back.
“Three more months,” I say.
“How wonderful,” the clerk says. “First baby?”
“Yeah.”
“Enjoy it,” she says. “It goes fast.”
Harmony steps out of the dressing room in maternity jeans and a deep green top that skims over her rounded stomach. She looks uncertain, one hand smoothing the fabric at her side.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I think I want to stand up, walk over to her, and kiss her until she understands exactly what I think.
Instead, I just nod my approval. “It’s good.”
She tugs at the hem. “Maybe it’s too fitted.”
“It’s not.”
“Would you tell me if it was?”
“You know I would.”
After that, she tries on two more shirts, a dress, and a pair of leggings she declares both ugly and life-changing. Every time she steps out, some part of me has to recalibrate around the sight of her. Softer. Rounder. Still Harmony. More Harmony, somehow.
By the time she’s finished, the yes pile is bigger than the no pile. I carry everything to the counter while she digs through her purse for her wallet. The second I see it coming, I step in front of her and hand the clerk my card.
“Lucas.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I do.”
She gives me a look. “I can buy my own clothes.”
“I know.”
“Then move.”
“No.”
The clerk suddenly becomes very interested in removing hangers.
Harmony lowers her voice. “You already bought the crib.”
I look down at her. “You’re carrying our baby. You’re dealing with the nausea, the exhaustion, the fact that half your clothes don’t fit anymore. The least I can do is make sure you have whatever makes it easier.”
Her expression changes. Just a little. The fight doesn’t leave her completely, but it eases enough that I see what’s under it. She’s overwhelmed. Grateful. Trying to figure out how much help she’s allowed to accept before it feels like too much.
She huffs out a breath, then slides her wallet back into her purse. “Fine. But I’m buying the next time we have lunch.”
Outside, I carry the bags to her car while she walks beside me. The afternoon light catches in her hair, and for a few seconds I let myself look, really look, at the woman I’ve loved longer than I can admit out loud.
She opens the back door, and I set the bags inside beside the folder of ultrasound pictures.
The sight of it all together does something strange to me.
Clothes for her. Pictures of the baby. Her purse on the passenger seat.
My hand braced on the door of her car. All of it ordinary.
All of it more than I ever thought I’d get.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again.”
“Okay.”
“For the clothes. And the appointment. And all of it.”
“Harmony.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to thank me for showing up.”
Her eyes hold mine, soft and unreadable. The space between us feels thin enough to tear. Then she looks away, pulling her keys out.
“Drive safe,” I say.
“I will,” she says. “Talk to you later.”
I close her door once she’s inside, then step back as she starts the car. She gives me a small wave through the windshield before pulling out of the parking space. I stand there, watching until her car disappears onto the main road.
Doctor’s appointments. Ultrasound photos. Maternity shopping on a Thursday afternoon. Waiting for texts that tell me she made it home safely.
None of it belongs to me the way I want it to.
Maybe one day she’ll change her mind. Maybe she won’t. I don’t get to decide what Harmony feels for me, and I sure as hell won’t push her when she’s already carrying enough.
But I do get to decide what kind of man I am.
I’ll be there for every appointment, every late-night text, every day she feels scared and doesn’t want to say it. When our kid gets here, I’ll be there for diapers and bottles and scraped knees and school drop-offs and whatever else is needed from me.
As long as Harmony lets me, I’ll keep showing up.
Even if she never loves me back.