"For us," he clarifies, like that makes it simpler.
"I don't know." The admission costs me, but lying feels pointless when he's already seen me at my most vulnerable. "This wasn't exactly in my five-year plan."
"Mine either." He moves closer, just one step, but suddenly the kitchen feels smaller. "But I'm not sorry it happened."
"I'm not either," I say quietly, surprising myself with the truth of it.
"Good." His eyes darken. "Because it's happening again."
It's not a question. It's a statement of fact, like the sun rising or me craving weird pregnancy foods in the middle of the night. We opened this door and there's no closing it now.
"Presumptuous much?" I say, but there's no bite to it.
"Realistic," he counters, taking another step closer. "You really think we can go back to separate bedrooms and polite small talk?"
He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. Close enough that I can see the navy circle around the edges of his blue eyes. Close enough that all I'd have to do is lean forward and...
"No," I whisper. "We can't."
His hand comes up, fingers ghosting over the hickey that's basically a neon sign saying "Property of Kasen James." The light touch sends electricity straight to parts of me that should still be in recovery from last night.
"So, where does that leave us?"
Fucked. Completely, utterly fucked. But I can't say that, can't admit how terrified I am of wanting him this much. Of needing him. Of the way my body recognizes his like they're two pieces of the same really dysfunctional puzzle.
But before I can come up with something appropriately sarcastic to deflect with, his gaze drops to my belly where the shirt of his I’m wearing stretches across. The atmosphere shifts, softens, becomes something that makes me want to run for the hills and also never leave this kitchen.
"You're showing more," he says, his voice tinged with wonder. "When did that happen?"
I look down at the obvious bump that wasn't nearly this prominent even last week. Sixteen weeks, and there's no hiding it anymore. Not in his thin t-shirt, not in anything really.
"I don't know. It just... happened." I smooth a hand over the curve self-consciously. "None of my work clothes fit anymore.”
He places his hand over mine on my belly, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than anything we did last night. "It's amazing."
"It's weird," I say, but I don't pull away. "My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”
"It's beautiful." He looks at me like I'm some kind of miracle instead of a hormonal mess with bedhead. "You're beautiful."
And damn him, he means it. I can see it in his face, in the reverence with which he touches me. It's too much. Too real. Too close to things I’m really not ready to face yet.
"I need to get ready for work," I say, stepping back because if I don't put distance between us now, I never will.
His hand falls away, but his eyes stay locked on mine. "I know. Me too."
I turn to leave, but he catches my wrist, and just like that, I'm back in his gravitational pull.
"Wren."
The use of my actual name instead of "Pink" stops me in my tracks. He so rarely calls me that.
"What?" I ask, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
"I meant what I said last night." His thumb traces circles on the inside of my wrist, sending shivers up my arm. "About you being mine. About not sharing."
The possessive edge in his voice should irritate me. Should have me reading him the riot act about bodily autonomy and feminism and how I belong to no one but myself.
Instead, it makes me want to jump him.
