Chapter Text
You awake to a golden beam of sunlight casting directly over your face. This particular ray of sun victimizes you a lot lately, as you find yourself curled up in Joel’s front-facing bedroom. With a slight groan, you lay your forearm over your eyes, hoping and praying for reprieve. It’s too early, your lower back feels like it’s been repeatedly struck with a hammer, and you're tired.
The warm body beside you stirs, and you feel large hands brace your hips, fingertips toying with the soft cotton of your night shorts.
“G’mornin’,” a gruff voice grouses out.
“Just morning,” you reply tiredly.
“What’s a’ matter, baby?” Joel adjusts his body in the tangle of warm sheets, bracing his chest against your back, bending his knees so you’re curled against his thighs. “Didn't sleep good?”
Scowling, you lean your head back, resting it in the dip between his neck and shoulder. It’s comfortable there, soft and familiar, a good brace for your aching body. He’s always especially tactile in the mornings, still half-asleep and clingy with tender affection.
“Would you sleep well with a bowling ball on your pelvis?” you gripe.
He hums a soft noise of acknowledgement, lips brushing over hair on the crown of your head. “I would not, no.”
“Ugh. And Dana’s got me doing collections again today,” you squeeze your eyes shut in preparation of another miserable day of paperwork, “she thinks sitting at the computer is better than standing and doing ultrasounds all day. She’s fucking wrong, it makes my day drag by.”
“Shouldn’t be workin’ at all,” he murmurs disapprovingly, “you’re forty weeks tomorrow.”
“I’m well aware,” you grind out, the displeased note in your voice aggravated by the pain in your back. Everything is so fucking uncomfortable lately that it’s all your willpower not to burst into tears on the hour from how ready you are for this to be over.
“M’serious,” Joel mutters, his nose still pressed into your hair, “call in sick. Take your maternity leave now. It’s time.”
“You seem to be forgetting that babies cost money, Joel. And I need to save up as much of it as I can before I’m out for weeks.”
“Months,” he corrects.
“Months,” you concede.
“I’m here anyway, you really don’t gotta worry about-”
“Joel, I’m not letting you pay for everything, we’ve been over this. It’s just the rest of this week, two more days, and then I’m done.” With a huff, you reach around and press your fingers against the throb of your lower back, trying to quell the ache. Quick in motion, Joel replaces your fingers with his own, kneading his knuckles over the smooth flesh.
Your groan of complaint melts into a sigh of relief, and you go limp in his arms. You hear his small noise of smug pride at the immediate gratification.
“You take maternity leave today, I’ll stay home too n’ we can do this all day,” he tempts you in a low voice.
You groan again, this time in frustration. He’s been trying to convince you for the past week to just go on leave early, trying numerous tactics of negotiation. You’d almost folded last Friday at his promise of a mint chip milkshake, but your cravings had been clouding your judgment. You can get your own damn milkshake.
“You know what you can do for me?” you muse, draping your leg lazily over his, spreading your thighs.
He picks up on the slight shift in your tone. “What’s that, baby?”
Drifting his fingers from the knob of your ankle, up your calf, stopping at your thigh to cup his palm around the abundant flesh, his thumbs indent small rivets in your skin.
“Distract me from the back pain,” you plea breathily, “that way I can survive the day.”
He hums another small noise, this time one of intrigue. His wandering hand smooths up the shape of your thigh, gliding his fingertips downward until they tease at the tie of your pajama shorts. He tugs once, loosening the knot until it comes undone.
You shudder involuntarily, skin tingling in anticipation of his touch. Everything’s so sensitive lately; your nipples, your swollen clit, the bundles of nerves in your feet and the muscles in your legs. The gentlest touch makes you feel alight with heat, eager and greedy for whatever he can provide.
His fingers dip into the waistline of your shorts, fighting for space with the distended swell of your middle. The pads of his index and middle finger meet the soft bud of your clit, and you whine a small, keening noise.
“Oh, baby,” Joel breathes against your neck, “wet for me already?”
You’re too encumbered to do much in the way of taking charge. You lie there on your side, belly pinning you, Joel curled up against your back, fingers slowly tracing lines down from your clit through the slickness of your parted lips.
Your throat tightens as he finally, mercifully, glides a finger into the damp opening. He makes a deep noise in his chest, a rumbling, hungry sound.
“So hot,” Joel murmurs, lips peppering delicate kisses down your neck, “so wet and hot, honey. God, you’re so sexy, so perfect.”
You practically purr at the sound of his praise, legs tightening with the smooth, rhythmic motions of his finger inside you. He’s slow, gentle, toying with your dripping, pulsing cunt at a leisurely pace. He doesn’t care if you’re late to work, hell he probably wants that, and he’s in no hurry to free you. You’re dependent on him to help you up now anyway. He’s got you trapped here, and it’s fantastic.
He joins his index with his middle finger, curling them up in a desirable motion while he swirls whirlpool motions over your clit with his thumb. The sensations tense out through your body, spiraling from your cunt, dripping through your veins, melting into your languid limbs like a slow burning fire. The pleasure is gasoline, lit with a match down a long rope, tendrils of it consuming you.
You come on his fingers, teeth clenched to remain quiet, fists gripping the sheets above you, chest heaving. Your thighs are soaked, nightshorts completely drenched, body trembling.
“Joel,” you whine, “please.”
He hesitates, fingers still inside you. He’s been anxious about fucking you lately, worried he’ll hurt you or the baby. You usually manage to help him overcome that fear.
“I dunno,” he murmurs, his other hand kneading your back, “you said you were in pain, honey, n’ you’re…it’s gonna be any day now. I ain’t sure if-”
“Joel,” you growl, “if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m gonna delay my maternity leave another week.”
At that, he snorts out a small laugh. It’s a slightly condescending noise, one that shows you he hasn’t taken your threat seriously in the slightest.
“You think you’re in control, baby?” he teases quietly, slipping his fingers out to tug at the hemline of your shorts. “Really? Lyin’ here, so pregnant you can’t hardly move, drippin’ wet all over my fingers. You think you’re the boss?”
You cut him a glare, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “Yes. Yes I do.”
Judging from the stiff, hard mass pressing into the back of your thighs, you’re pretty sure he thinks so too.
“Christ,” he breathes, shaking his head. Carefully, he slides your shorts down while you peel your t-shirt off, grimacing when you realize the chest is damp with milk. Whatever, problem for later.
You feel him behind you, removing his boxers, unsheathing his hard cock. He adjusts, sliding pillows under your side to prop you up, support your massive belly, your head, even under your hips. By the time he’s done with his little nest, you’re elevated several inches off the bed by way of pillow airlift.
“I feel like the princess and the pea,” you grumble.
“My princess,” he murmurs, crowding behind you again, lips planting delicate presses to your shoulder.
“So lame,” you tease, but you’re smiling.
And then, your eyes flutter, your lips draw slack, your chest heaves with a breath. He enters you slowly, carefully, still supporting your body from behind. Gently, he lifts your top leg, pulling it back over his own, spreading your thighs and draping you over him so he can sink deeper into your tight, wet flesh.
The pressure is immense, between the baby crowding up your insides, feeling like a dumbbell on your hips, and now the thick girth of his cock sheathed within you.
You tilt your hips back, relieved as he stills to give you a moment to adjust. The stretch is uncomfortable, but in a way that makes your cunt ache and twitch, desperate for more. You soak him, your warm juices dripping down his dick.
“Talk to me,” Joel whispers, voice restrained, “you okay, honey?”
“Yes,” you breathe, hair spilling out over your pillow pile as your head tips back, “ please Joel.”
“Okay baby, I gotcha.” His arms wrap around you, cupping the weight of your stomach, sinking himself even deeper. Your back is pressed into his torso, hot skin meeting damp flesh. You’re as close as physically possible right now, his cock buried within you, your bodies molded together.
He moves in slow, gentle motions. His hips are rhythmic, well-practiced. He rolls into you, the heft of his diamond hard cock pressing forward until he spears you so deep it makes you cry out.
“Shhh, shhh,” his other hand wraps around to press into your lips, reminding you of the sleeping kid in the other room. You nod feebly, opening your mouth. His fingers slip in, and you bite down, teeth indenting his skin.
“ Mmm fuck, harder,” Joel growls. Your teeth dig in deeper around his fingers, mooring yourself to quiet and stability by pinning his hand between your lips.
Still his hips rock into yours, the movement growing more sloppy and hurried with each stroke. You feel every inch as it slicks through your tight walls, the contours of your slippery cunt gripping him at every angle.
He lowers his hand from the crest of your belly down until his fingers find your clit, and he smooths circles over it again.
Your teeth dig into his fingers harder, you hear his huff of pain, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks deep into you, cock spearing you at your deepest point, cresting sensations on your clit that make your eyes roll back.
“That’s it baby girl,” Joel huffs, “come on my cock.”
You do as you’re told, muscles spasming, hips grinding, legs twitching. Your orgasm whites out your vision, erasing everything besides the feeling of his spitting cock inside you. The back pain dissipates into nothingness, consumed by the feeling of Joel as he paints your walls with his thick come.
His hips begin to slow, and you release his fingers from the tight clench of your teeth. There’s little crescent indents just below his knuckles.
He breathes heavily in your ear, still gripped within you, his hands returning to the expanse of your stretched belly, rubbing small circles. A particularly rough kick bumps against his palm, and you wince.
“Talk to me,” he says again, breathless.
“Fine,” you assure him raggedly, “just extremely pregnant.”
“Not much longer,” he says softly.
“God I hope not.” You exhale as you feel his hips pull back and slide away from yours. He’s off the bed to hunt down a warm towel for you.
“How’s the back?” He asks as he returns and carefully wipes your thighs down.
“Much better,” you preen at him, “thank you.”
“Good. Now, if you wanted to stay home and do that again, we could-“
“Don’t even start.”
“Worth a shot.”
Four kids, two c-sections, a hysterectomy, and 20 years as an ultrasound technician are enough background for Dana Wilcox to know when a woman is in labor.
She remembers her first, she was just a kid really. Freshly married to her first husband, way too young, so broke she was still working in her fortieth week of pregnancy. The gas station had a nice regular, a woman named Margaret, who was a nurse for an obstetrician.
She’d spotted Dana behind the counter when she thought no customers were around, gripping the underside of her belly, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched.
She was the first person to know that Dana was having her baby. She was the one who told her she needed to get to the hospital, now. Before there were things like Lamaze class and Instagram reels, all she had were VHS tapes telling her to open her pelvic floor and listen to her body.
Well, sometimes her body didn’t explain things very well. If it weren’t for Margaret, she would’ve given birth in the gas station bathroom, she’s sure of it.
Dana watches you these days, when you waddle into the office with one hand under your stomach and the other clenched against your lower back. You’re miserable, clearly, yet still subjecting yourself to a 9-5. She’s tried her damndest to get you on leave early, as has Dr. Mendez, but you’re a stubborn little shit.
Something is different today, when you waddle through the staff door in the back. Your scrubs have looked tight for months now, but something about the shape of your belly just looks… different. Your skin is dewy, back arched like you’re in pain. You give her a tired wave, breezing by to set your purse down in the break room. You’re walking slower than usual, and you walk slow these days.
Dana knows if she asks you about it you’ll give her hell and a half for being nosey, so she resists the urge. Instead, she watches you, the same way Margaret had for her.
She’s kept you away from patients the past week or two, wanting you off your feet while your interim replacement handles your patients. You sit in her office at the spare desk, adjusting uncomfortably in the chair every few minutes. This in itself isn’t uncommon, for someone who’s full term pregnant.
She notices that it happens every so often, almost like clockwork, that you stop working to press your palm against your lower back. You knead your hand there for a moment, breathing deep in your chest, before going back to your work like nothing happened.
Dana tries not to hover, but she can’t shake this feeling. Something is off. You’re forty weeks along, and something is off.
Around lunchtime, she pops her head into the breakroom to see you’ve completely neglected whatever leftovers are in a tupperware for you. She knows it’s prepared by that man, Joel , the neighbor. You haven’t been so explicit, but she’s pretty sure the two of you are together. Considering you have a packed lunch with you every day now when you used to show up with a beef jerky stick or a brown banana and crackers, Dana thinks he’s probably taking good care of you.
Normally, you’re ravenous for the lunches he packs you. She can’t get you to stop shoveling food in long enough to have a proper conversation with you. But today, you’re pushing your fork around through rice and meat, nose wrinkled.
“Hey,” Dana greets you, attempting to sound casual as she enters the room and heads for the coffee pot.
You don’t reply, fork still scraping, and she turns to see you’ve got a far-off look in your eyes, sort of glossy. Not all the way there. Very unlike you, on a normal day.
“Hello?” Dana prompts, saying your name which finally makes you glance at her, blinking.
“Oh, sorry.” You shake your head. “Zoned out.”
“Clearly. You alright?”
“Uh-huh.” You nod, looking back at your tupperware unenthusiastically. She’s about to ask you what’s wrong with it, when your phone rings, and she sees you bring it to your ear.
Dana turns her back to you, busying herself with the coffee pot, not wanting you to feel watched.
“Hey,” you say into the phone.
Whoever is on the other line replies, and you sigh heavily. “Joel, I’m fine. I sound tired because I’m pregnant. Relax.”
Another reply that Dana can’t hear, and you laugh into the receiver. “Seriously? Of course I’m eating lunch.”
Dana cranes her neck, arching an eyebrow at you. You wave her off dismissively, as if to say: oh don’t be a narc.
“Well, we had a huge dinner last night. I only have so much room you know, and this kid’s using up a lot of it,” you say in response to whatever he’s replied. “I know I didn’t eat breakfast. I will eat lunch.”
It’s quiet again as he says something else, and finally you say, “I know. I will, I promise. Love you too.”
You set your phone down with a huff of breath, and Dana sits across from you at the table.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, lifting her mug up to her lips.
You shake your head, scraping your fork through the leftovers again, though you make no move to take a bite. “Nah, he’s just worried.”
“Because you aren’t eating today?” Dana guesses, gesturing with her chin to the tupperware.
You shrug. “I just don’t have much appetite, I dunno why. Probably because my stomach is being crushed into a tiny little ball so this baby can spread her knees and kick me every time I breathe.”
“You look miserable,” Dana says.
“I am miserable. I’m like, 90% womb 10% person at this point. It fucking sucks.”
Dana chuckles. “I don’t think you’ve got to worry about it much longer.”
“So I hear,” you grumble.
Before Dana can reply, you suck in a sharp breath, eyes clenching shut as you bring your hand around to your lower back. You let out a huff of air, tinged with a barely perceptible air of pain.
“Hey,” Dana says once your expression has smoothed over and you’re sitting up straight again.
“Hm?” you ask, replacing the lid over your tupperware, clearly having no intention of another attempt to eat.
“You’re going home,” she says, voice gentle and easy.
Your eyebrows pinch together. “What?”
“Grab your stuff. I’m driving you home.”
“Dana, what are you talking about? My shift isn’t over for another five hours.”
“This isn’t an argument,” Dana says more firmly this time, “I’m driving you home. Get your shit, now.”
Confused, you begin to collect your things, packing your tupperware back into your lunch box and grabbing your purse. It clearly takes effort to get up from the chair, which only reinforces Dana’s decision.
“This is so ridiculous,” you mutter as you follow Dana out back toward the parking lot, “why am I leaving?”
“You just need to go home,” Dana says, opening the passenger door for you.
Instead of climbing in, you put your hands on your hips, which isn’t a particularly threatening look with your huge belly hanging low and the sheen of sweat on your forehead. Still, you’re a stubborn shit.
“I need a real answer,” you demand.
Dana opens her mouth to reply, but she’s cut off by the groaning noise of pain that spills from your lips. You drop your purse, clutching an arm underneath your stomach, the other reaching out blindly. Dana lurches forward to accept your hand, and feels your fingers compress her knuckles in a tight grip.
You let out a low, deep noise of discomfort, eyes shut, lips hanging slack. Dana holds you there patiently while you ride it out, only stepping away when you gasp and clutch yourself more tightly.
She looks down at the legs of your now soaked baby blue scrubs, eyebrows raised. “ That would be your water breaking, kid.”
You meet her eyes, sweat-slicked face draped with panic. Your eyes are wide, arms still wrapped around your stomach, knees locked together. Dana remembers this feeling well, the same way she’d looked in the gas station, gaping at Margaret.
She takes a deep breath, trying to remember the sage words of the wise old woman who’d helped her that day.
“You’re gonna be fine, okay? Women have been giving birth since the dawn of time.”
You look at her, still wide-eyed and trembling.
“We’ll get you home, you can call that man home to take care of you, and everything’s gonna be just fine. Alright?”
You glance nervously at your stomach, then at her face, unconvinced.
“Let me hear you say it,” Dana orders you.
“E-everything’s gonna be fine,” you repeat feebly.
“You can do this.”
“I…I can do this.”
“Attagirl.” Dana nods firmly. “Now hold on, I wanna put a towel down before you get in.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you growl.
“Now you’re sounding like yourself.” Dana snorts as she reaches into the backseat and unrolls a beach towel from her gym bag. She lays it across the passenger seat, patting it primly. With an annoyed grunt of effort, you heave yourself into the car, glowering the entire time.
Dana gets behind the wheel, beginning to navigate the streets back as you direct her. About halfway there, she sees you in her peripherals, pulling your phone out again and holding it to your ear.
It rings for maybe a half second before you say, “hey, sorry, you busy?”
Whatever he says must be funny, because you smile tiredly, even managing a brief laugh.”Good to know. Listen, um, Dana’s driving me home. My water broke.”
Dana hears a raised voice on the other line, though she can’t decipher the words. You smile again, allowing him to say whatever he’s saying in rapid, frantic succession before you respond.
“Yes, I’m fine. It just broke like two minutes ago….yeah, I’m okay, babe. Just drive safe, don’t rush, okay? We have plenty of time.”
His next reply makes you laugh again, until the sound devolves into a harsh intake of air and you press your hand against your back. “Mhm…no it’s okay, I’m fine. Pretty sure I’m having back labor…yeah, yeah that would explain the backache this morning…”
You huff out another laugh, nodding even though he isn’t there to see it. “Yes, let’s give you all the credit. I’ll see you at home. Love you.”
Setting the phone down in your lap, you breathe out another slow exhale and look at Dana curiously. “Hey, how…how’d you know?”
Dana grins as she pulls the car up to the curb in front of your house, putting the car in park. “We’ve known each other a while, kid. You’re a little more see-through than you think.”
You sigh, nodding thoughtfully. Glancing at her with your hand on the door, you say, “so…I think I’m on maternity leave now.”
Dana barks a laugh. “Safe to say.”
“Thanks for everything.” There’s a hint of nerves in your voice.
“You can do this,” Dana reminds you, “now get goin’. I hope you watched those tapes I gave you.”
“I did,” you promise. “See you, Dana.”
“Bye kid, good luck.”
With that, you climb out, waddling up your walkway toward the front door. Dana can’t help but notice as she pulls the car around to make sure you get inside, that your lawn is incredibly well-kept. She wonders how you’ve managed that this far in.
Once you’re safely behind the front door, she turns the car, driving away from your manicured grass, leaving you in the hands of the man next door.
At the front door, key in the lock, Joel allows himself a beat to freak the absolute fuck out. He’d had a slightly pathetic anxiety attack in the car on the way here, white-knuckling the wheel and forcing even breaths out.
He’s grateful that you called him right away, but the fact that he sent you off to work after essentially fucking you into labor, that ain’t exactly a good feeling.
Still, he knows right now, he has to set all that shit aside. He has to box it up, package it neat, and keep it somewhere deep within him where it won’t surface until everything is over and done with. Right now, you need him. The baby needs him.
Tommy’s got Sarah, she’s gonna stay with them for a few days at least. He’d talked to her briefly on the phone, chest warmed by her small voice wishing him luck, commenting that she can’t wait to meet the baby.
That was enough to calm his nerves just a little.
Taking a breath, he turns the key and unlocks the door, opening it carefully so as not to startle you. The house is quiet when he enters, save for the tinny sound of the TV in the living room. He shuts the door behind him, frowning curiously as he crosses the foyer to find you sitting cross-legged on the couch. Your hospital bag is by the door, there’s a water bottle on the coffee table, and you’ve changed from your scrubs to a pair of loose cotton sweatpants and one of his Pearl Jam t-shirts.
You glance up as he approaches, smiling tiredly. Your hands are resting folded atop the curve of your belly, your hair pulled up in a messy bun, tendrils framing your dewy cheeks. Everything about you glows and hums with impending life, the buzzing blossom of possibilities in the air between you.
“Hey baby,” he greets you quietly, trying to match the calm atmosphere in the house, trying to gauge your mood and go with it. He sits gingerly beside you on the couch, brushing a thumb along the gentle plush of your full cheek.
“Hi,” you respond with a soft smile. Behind you on the TV, the Friends theme song rings out.
Joel’s surprised, and more than a little confused. He’d been expecting…well, more urgency? More anxiety? A little more hustle and bustle. Everything about you right now is calm, comfortable, serene.
It hadn’t been like this with Sarah’s mom, who’d been cursing his name and growling at him the entire time. Not that he blamed her, but that’s about what he was expecting. He should know better than to compare the two of you of course; you couldn’t be more different.
He figures there’s still plenty of time for it to trend in that direction, so he resolves to help prolong this relaxed feeling as long as possible.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, sliding his hand down to gently cup the front of your belly. You join him there, intertwining your fingers.
“Weird, I think,” you admit.
“Weird?” he prompts, worry creasing his brow.
“I’m okay,” you’re quick to soothe, “it’s just weird. Like…I’m in labor. The baby is coming but not at the same time. It’s just weird.”
Joel chuckles, smoothing his thumb down the stretched material of his shirt over your belly. “Yeah, it’s a little weird. But we’re ready, yeah?”
“ So ready,” you nod. “I’m tired of being pregnant.”
“I know, baby.” Joel squeezes your hand in his, bringing your knuckles up to press a chaste kiss there. “What can I do for you, right now?”
You shrug, smiling shortly at him. “Just be here, I think.”
“I can do that.” Joel opens his arms, and you sink against him easily. He lowers his back against the armrest of the couch, arranging your bodies so that your head is on his chest, weight splayed across him. You sigh a content breath, cheek smushed up against the beat of his heart beneath his shirt.
It’s quiet, as the two of you watch the show, his fingers smoothing soft lines down your spine. Every so often your breath hitches with discomfort, and he kneads his knuckles over the flesh of your lower back, which gives you audible relief. He checks in, asking if you’re alright, to which you nod and say yes.
You fall asleep on his chest during the third episode. It’s the one where no one is ready and Ross is about to lose his mind because they’re all going to be late. Joel knows you like this one, knows he’s gonna have to rewatch it when you wake up sad that you missed it, but he’s pinned down by your weight and can’t get to the remote now.
Still, he strokes your back, eyes falling affectionately on your sleeping form. You smell clean, like you’d showered before he got here, your coconut lotion fragrant. Your nail polish is chipped on the ring finger, pastel yellow forked in a V at the edge of your nail. He studies the finger, the slope of your knuckle, the empty space where a little gold band oughta be.
Someday, he thinks fondly.
There’s a few more episodes that play before he feels you jostling. He’s just on the cusp of sleep himself, lulled into it by your warm weight on his chest and the content aura of the room. Your eyelashes flutter, and you blink up at him for a moment before your face screws up in pain.
He grabs your hand, letting your fingers press into the flesh over his palm, meeting your eyes as a pained whine pulls from your throat.
“Breathe,” he reminds you softly, inhaling and exhaling like you’d been practicing, “breathe in, then out slow, through your mouth.”
You nod, following his example, your breath a bit shakier than his. You grip his hand hard, and he counts the seconds before your face smooths out, and your shoulders deflate. You run a hand over the expanse of your tummy, blinking.
“That was a real one,” you say, like you’d only just realized it.
“We got some time before it happens again,” he reminds you. “You did such a good job baby, breathin’ through it.”
You chuckle raspily. “Alright, I did a good job.”
“So good.” He squeezes your arms. “Why don’t we get you sittin’ up for a little? Get some water in you.”
You nod, accepting his help as he readjusts you so your back is against the couch cushions. You pull your legs up and cross them again, rubbing your eyes.
“You missed the one where no one is ready,” he tells you, handing you the water bottle. Your hands are a little shaky, so he keeps his own clasped around yours until the water meets your lips.
“Can you rewind?” you ask once you’ve half drained the bottle.
“Course I will.” He grabs the remote and restarts the episode. “Let me go fill this back up. Think you can eat somethin’?”
You hesitate. “I don’t feel hungry.”
“I know baby, but you’re gonna need your strength. How about one of those smoothies I made the other day?”
“Mm…sure, yeah.”
“Comin’ up.”
Smoothie in hand, eyes glued to the television, he leaves you for a moment to go to the bathroom and change into something more comfy himself. The yard between your homes feels like a million miles as he shuffles across it as fast as he can.
He changes quickly into a pair of joggers and a hoodie, relieving himself and shoveling down a handful of dates from the farmer’s market you took him to last week. He makes it back across the yard in record time, cursing under his breath when he opens your door to the sound of groaning.
He’s at the couch in an instant, taking the smoothie glass out of your clutch and replacing it with his hand. Your eyes are closed, but you grip his fingers in your own immediately, noises of discomfort pulling from deep within your chest.
“Good job baby,” he whispers, “groan it out, like they showed us. You’re okay.”
After a few more seconds your eyes reopen and you whimper slightly. Joel pulls you in, resting his chin in your hair as you relax immediately against his chest.
“Good job honey, you’re doin’ so so good,” he praises warmly.
“Uh-huh,” you agree. You sound tired.
He’s hoping he can get you comfy enough to get some more rest, considering the worse these contractions get the less you’re gonna sleep. If you can still try to sleep through them, that would be ideal.
“You want any more?” he asks, gesturing to the smoothie. You’d sipped lightly at it, maybe only taking down a quarter. But he can see you’ve had more water, which is good.
You shake your head. “Not hungry. But…um…” Your voice falters.
“What is it?”
“I really have to pee,” you admit, eyes big and unsure when you look at him.
“Alright,” he replies in a measured voice, “I’ll help you up, honey, don’t worry.”
“No it’s not that.” You wave a hand, looking flushed. “I’m…afraid.”
“To pee?”
“I know it’s ridiculous,” you say, embarrassed, “I mean logically I know the baby isn’t coming for a while but I’m…nervous to use…ugh. You know.”
Joel resists the urge to smirk at your utterly insane concern that you’re gonna pee the goddamn baby out. Instead, he smooths some hair behind your ear and offers you a tender smile.
“I’ll go with you, alright? That way if this kid tries anything, I’ll be there to tell her off.”
You roll your eyes, laughing a little breathlessly. “It’s so stupid.”
“It’s certainly creative,” he suggests, “but I’m here to help. With everything.”
Relief smooths over your expression, and you hold your arms out to him. Joel chuckles and helps haul you to your feet, keeping his arms braced carefully around your back.
To the surprise of no one, you don’t pee the baby out. It goes off without a hitch, even if you look less than pleased about needing to be helped off the toilet.
You’re settled on the couch again before too long, sprawled on top of him like you were before. He strokes your hair, down your neck and back, rubs that tender spot on your tailbone.
The next few hours are slow going. You talk about baby names, how you hope you’ll be good at breastfeeding, how you wonder if Jacob passed his finals. You then remind him who Jacob is.
You’re asleep again after an hour or so, which is a relief. He’s nervous that you don’t have any appetite, and by how tired you look already. The more rest you get before the big show, the better.
Joel manages to free himself from your clutches, feeling antsy and unnerved by the stillness of waiting. He confirms the spare carseat he’d bought despite your insistence he didn’t need to -he’ll give you an “I told you so” later, considering your car is still at work- is nestled securely in his backseat. He checks your hospital bag, ensuring everything is in its place. He grabs his own from his house, setting it by yours at the front door. He checks the freezer; he’d made and frozen a bunch of meals this week in preparation. All is well, all is prepared.
After a brief check to confirm you’re still sound asleep and breathing nice and easy, he canters up the stairs, trailing toward the ajar nursery door. The two of you -well, really you , all he’d done was move furniture where you told him to- had really done a nice job. The crib, a dark burnished mahogany, is nestled in the back corner of the room across from the window. A small, matching bookshelf is on the opposite wall, filled with children’s books and small compartments of toys. There’s a sturdy rocking chair by the window, a plush pillow over the seat. You’d fallen in love with the thing at first sight when Joel took you and Sarah to an antique store in the city a few weeks ago after lunch. It was a great find, and with a few tweaks in his garage, he was able to get the thing sturdy enough that he felt safe letting your heavily pregnant self rock in it. Definitely safe for you and the baby too.
He smiles with his hand on the door, imagining you leaning over the crib to scoop up a wriggling little bundle, chubby limbs swinging around and a gummy smile looking up. The image swells warmth in his chest.
Then, he hears a pained noise from downstairs, and he’s turning on his heel. He takes the steps two at a time, reentering the living room to find you sitting up on the couch, face pinched up, fists gripping the throw blanket he’d draped over you.
“Hey, easy.” He rushes over to sit beside you, offering you his hand, though you ignore it. You keep your eyes shut, expression twisted up, a guttural noise of discomfort filling the air.
It’s a bad one.
Joel hovers helplessly, unsure if he should touch you since you’d refused his hand. He grips the back of the couch, counting the seconds in his head as he tries to breathe slowly in example.
“ Mmmm…” you moan, knuckles white, “ Joel.”
“M’here baby, you’re alright. Hey, breathe slow, groan it out. S’okay.”
“Fuck,” you gasp out a quick inhale, eyes opening as the pain seems to recede. Your eyes dart over to meet him, a bit of liquid budding at the corners of your lashes. “That hurt.”
“I know, I’m sorry honey. You’re doin’ so damn good, m’so proud of you.”
“ Hoo…” you breathe out slowly, rubbing your hands over the rounded swell of your middle. “So much for sleeping.”
“We got a bit of time ‘til the next one,” Joel reminds you, “you wanna try to eat a little something?”
Your face practically turns green. “God, no.”
“Okay. Tell me what you need.”
You glance hesitantly at him, teeth grazing your lower lip. “Could we go lay in bed?”
“Yeah, yeah sure baby.” He cups your arms and pulls you carefully to your feet, cautious of your wobbly legs. He scoops up your water bottle and helps you toward the stairs, keeping a secure grasp on you the entire way up.
In the comfort of the bedroom, you shed your sweatpants, leaving you in just his t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton panties. You lower yourself to the bed with a slight groan, curled up on your side, breathing heavily.
“Before you get too comfy,” he warns, “drink some water for me, honey.”
You glance sideways at him. “M’not thirsty, Joel. I hurt.”
His heart aches at your weepy admission. “I know sweet girl. But we gotta keep you hydrated, okay? ‘Specially since you ain’t eating.”
It’s clear you don’t want to, but you nod in conceit and reach an arm out for the water. He guides it to your palm, helping you lift the straw to your lips for a few hurried sips.
“Lie down with me?” you ask pliantly, as if there’s a chance in hell he’d ever say no to somethin’ like that.
Joel carefully lowers himself beside you on the bed, easy not to jostle your weight too much. You practically octopus all over him, gripping his waist and resting your head on his armpit. The weight of your belly is intense as it rests on his hip, and he feels a stab of sympathy for you having to carry it around all the time. He’s glad to relieve you of it, for at least a bit.
“You wanna watch a movie?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head. “No, I want to feel focused. The TV’s gonna frazzle me, I think.”
“Okay baby.”
“Can you read to me?”
“Yeah, of course I can honey.”
Joel grabs the book off your end table, thumbing through to the earmarked page. It’s some dumb romance drama he’d teased you for endlessly, until you explained the plot to him and he got a little bit more interested than he’d like to admit. It’s about these two rival mechanics who feud over a customer with an expensive collection of vehicles that need a lot of work, only to realize they’re both actually in love with her.
He jumps in to where you’d left off, nearly rolling his eyes at the line of dialogue atop the page. “ Oh Sophia, all I’ve ever known is the warmth of a carburetor. But bein’ with you, you make me feel real heat.” Joel makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat.
“Don’t start,” you gripe, but he can hear the grin in your voice.
“I ain’t startin’,” he defends, before he continues reading. “ Sophia’s heart beat nearly out of her chest, sweat pooling down her back. Her knees felt weak from the sight of Jeremy’s broad chest and bulging muscles. She wondered if what she’d always heard was true. If he could really lift a Kia Forte up by the front end with just his bare hands.”
“They’re gonna fuck,” you mutter.
“You disappointed?”
“Yeah I wanted her to do it with Zack.”
“Well maybe they’ll still- oh, oh shit.” His eyes go wide as he scans ahead a few lines.
“What?!” you demand. “Read, Joel!”
“ Sophia’s breath caught in her throat as Jeremy wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Her cheeks flushed cherry red, the same color as her bespoke lipstick. Her wavy curls danced down her bare back, heart fluttering in her chest like the first summer cry of a cicada in the trees. Just as Jeremy was about to press his lips against hers, finally sealing the deal, the garage door burst open, and Zack walked in.”
“Oh fuck!” You exclaim.
“I know, I thought he was away at the mechanics convention until-”
“ No, Joel, fuck, contraction!”
“Oh!” Joel drops the book at his side, turning to you attentively as you cry out in pain, clutching at him desperately. “Sorry, sorry honey.”
He holds you as you grind out low, deep noises of pain, clinging to him and panting. He breathes with you, exhaling and inhaling back and forth rhythmically, brow creased with worry at the increasing tenure of pain in your noises.
“I gotcha, you got this honey, oh good job. Good job, good girl.”
Finally, the contraction ends and you groan into his chest, still panting lightly. He brushes hair from your face and kisses the top of your head, murmuring quiet reassurances and encouragements.
“You’re doin’ so good baby, m’so proud of you, you hear me?”
“Doesn’t feel good,” you whine, hanging over him like you need him to prop you up or you’ll collapse in on yourself.
“Oh, I know, I know. But you’re amazing. So, so good honey.”
You nod again, breath finally evening out. “Alright, I’m okay. Dear god, please keep reading.”
Dutifully, Joel lifts the book, delving back into the torrid mechanics love affair.
-
The next few hours feel a bit like being stuck in a time loop.
Joel holds you for a while in bed, getting through a good chunk of the book before you ask him to stop. His voice is a little hoarse anyway.
Passing the time between contractions is mostly quiet conversation, stilted naps that get quickly interrupted from the pain, or the low strum of Joel twiddling with the guitar he’d left here. You ask him to play a few songs, and it makes you smile, so he’s hard pressed to say no.
When dinner time rolls around he tries to coax some food into you, which you reluctantly accept. He feels bad eating when you ain’t feeling up to it, but he needs his strength if he’s gonna be here to give you what you need, so he eats his fill.
You lean against the table as he finishes as quickly as he can, shifting all his attention back to you. You’ve barely touched the soup, so he offers you some fruit instead, hoping at least something will get ingested tonight.
“Do we have strawberries?” you ask meekly.
If you don’t, Joel’s gonna figure out a fucking way to get them to you, no matter what.
Luckily, you do have a fresh container of strawberries in the fridge. He washes the entire container and slices them up thin for you, displaying them in a bright red arc on the plate with a glob of nutella in the middle. His eyes keep darting anxiously at the clock above the stove. You’re fighting time here, next contraction just two minutes from now, if his math is right.
“Hold off for a sec,” he suggests, setting the plate in front of you and refilling your water. You look at him curiously, but understanding quickly takes over as you clutch your belly and cry out. Joel moves swiftly into action, letting you grip his palm, kneading your lower back, whispering quiet encouragement in your ear. He counts in his head, surprised when this one goes the longest of any yet.
Your ragged moan of pain teeters out eventually, and you wheeze out a few shallow breaths. Joel rubs your back firmly, kissing your damp temple.
“Nicely done, baby. You’re a pro at this, you know that?”
“Basically,” you mutter, still sounding winded.
“Help me out?” he asks, nudging the plate toward you. He wants you to start as soon as possible, give yourself enough time to enjoy the food before the pain creeps in again.
You nod reluctantly, placing a strawberry sliver on your tongue with a sigh. He kneels beside your chair, rubbing your back and resting his cheek on your arm while your head lulls against his.
“You want me to feed ‘em to you?” he asks. You nod again, more eager this time.
Delicately, he begins feeding you the strawberries, pausing to give you enough time to breathe and get comfortable between each bite. He’s started to notice the visible restriction of your belly with each contraction, a physical symptom that looks so painful he can only imagine how it feels. He doesn’t wanna hurry you along, but he wants to make sure you at least eat something before it’s too late.
You manage to get through most of the strawberries with him feeding you, even stopping to lick some stray nutella off his fingers, which makes him grin.
“Feel okay?” he asks, rubbing your thigh soothingly.
“Yeah, I’m alright.” You smile at him, squeezing his hand where it rests on your leg. “Thanks, Joel.”
“You want anythin’ else?”
“No, I’m feeling a little nauseous, don’t want to risk it. That was perfect.”
“Okay honey, you wanna get back on the couch?”
You consider his words briefly, before you ask, “can you run me a bath?”
“That’s a great idea, sugar. I’ll go do that in a second.”
You glance at the stairs, then back to his face, clearly curious as to why he’s waiting. “Okay.”
He nods expectantly, holding his hand out for you to take.
You study him. “Why- oooooh…”
Your fingers clutch his as the contraction sweeps over you, nails digging crescents into his palm. You breathe out low and slow, rhythmic huffs of breath that you’ve been trying to keep steady. They’re getting longer, more intense each time, and he can see the exertion already wearing on your damp face.
“Good job, keep breathin’, just like that. Good girl, that’s my girl. Oh, good job honey.”
Once you’ve settled, he squeezes your hand, kisses your head and moves for the stairs to start your bath. He’s careful not to make it too hot, but hot enough that he hopes it’ll help soothe the pains for you. He adds some of the bubble bath you like, filling the room with eucalyptus scent and a nice, cozy steam.
He’s overly cautious as he helps lower you into the tub, bracing your back so it doesn’t ache too much going down. You rest your neck on the lip where he’d folded up a towel as a pillow. The lights are dimmed, and the quiet hum of the faucet filling the tub is the only sound aside from your breathing.
Joel sits on the floor beside the tub, heedless of how fucked his back is gonna be after this, holding your hand that hangs limp over the edge. You let out a low, contented sound, eyes closing, swollen belly poking out through a ring of bubbles even as the tub fills to the top.
“Better?” he whispers.
“Mmm, yes,” you exhale, “thank you.”
“You are doin’ so goddamn good, I’m amazed, honey.”
At that, you manage a small, breathy laugh. “You’re doing everything for me, Joel.”
He tuts his tongue disapprovingly. “I don’t think we need to see that cervix dilation diagram thing the birth instructor showed again. Pretty sure all the important stuff is happening right there.” With his other hand, he gently pats your belly.
You snort. “God, you’re a dork.”
“So you’ve said,” he muses.
Another contraction interrupts, but you seem to bear it better in the hot support of the tub. He lets you grip his hand and he strokes your hair, kisses your face, tells you you’re doing good. It’s over after almost a minute, which ratchets up his nerves. You’re progressing pretty fast, it seems.
“That was seven minutes since the last,” he reminds you, once things are a bit calmer.
You nod. “Yeah. Hospital in a little bit?”
“Yes,” he agrees.
“They’re getting worse,” you breathe, your free hand rubbing your distended middle affectionately. “I think it would be a lot more intolerable without you here, Joel.”
“Then I’m real glad I’m here, honey.”
“I wanted to…ask you something.” You glance shyly at him, eyelashes fluttering on your cheeks as though you’re nervous. He can’t quite fathom what you’d be feeling shy about, considering you’re currently stark naked in front of him, and he’d helped you off the toilet earlier, but he listens close anyway.
“Anything.”
Huffing out a breath, you look down at your belly. “Avery terminated his rights, you know? He’s not going to be in the baby’s life at all.”
Hesitantly, Joel nods. He knows this.
“And…and um…” you blink rapidly, eyebrows furrowing like you’re trying to figure out how to say what you’re thinking. “Well, you…we… this is…I mean, this is it for me, you know? You. You’re all I want.”
“You’re all I want too,” he assures you without missing a beat.
“So…I guess what I’m asking is, if you’d be willing to- ooooh-” Your body tenses up, an aching moan spilling from your lips at the sudden flush of pain that courses through you.
Joel talks you through it again, though he’s unnerved by how quickly this one came forth. You hardly seem there for this one, eyes clenched shut, teeth ground together, pained shouts bellowing from deep within your sternum. Your breath hitches into a whine as it pans back out, and your stomach relaxes visibly.
“Baby, that was like five minutes,” Joel says nervously.
“What the fuck happened to six?” you ask in a ragged voice.
“Six left the building. I think we need to head to the hospital.”
“Yeah, I think so.” You grip his hand a little tighter, looking at his face with a newfound anxiety dancing through your eyes. “Joel?”
“Hey, I’m gonna be right here, I ain’t leavin’ your side the whole time, okay? I promise you. I’m here. We’re gonna do this together, yeah?”
“Okay,” you nod surely, steeling yourself, “okay, Joel. Together.”
“I’m gonna get you something to wear. No contractions while I’m gone, alright?”
“Sir yes sir.”
Joel chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before he pulls back to smile at you. “Let’s go have a baby, huh?”
“Yeah,” you smile back at him, radiant and beautiful as the first day he’d laid eyes on you. “Let’s go have a baby.”
It’s a miraculous thing, one life becoming two.
Through the echoes in your ears; through the chaos and calamity, you find yourself focused on one, unifying goal.
Meeting your child.
Your heartbeat thunders as you scream, sweat drenching your face, your legs, your back, every part of your body you can feel, really. The pain is indescribable. Your own body, twisted in on itself, condensing and spreading and burning in every horrible way imaginable. You feel absolutely destroyed, split in half and sewn back together with a rusty needle and old thread.
At the same time, you’ve never been more whole.
You’re aware, vaguely, of Joel’s voice at your side. You can’t fully comprehend his presence, can’t respond to him how you normally would. All you can do is feel , and scream, and push.
“Keep goin’ baby, oh you’re amazing, you’re doin’ so goddamn good. Keep pushing.”
“I’m so proud of you, Christ, I’m so proud of you. You’ve got it, you got it honey.”
“I gotcha, I gotcha, hold my hand. Go on baby, squeeze it hard. I got you, I got you, I’m here.”
“There you go, attagirl! That’s my girl, that’s right! Keep goin’ baby, keep goin’!”
His hand is sturdy in yours; large, calloused and secure. It’s a hand that fixes; your lawn, your AC, your broken heart, your damaged view of the future. You hold his hand, grasping it for dear life, anchoring yourself to this existence as an otherworldly pain takes your mind to places you never thought you’d be able to envision.
“Keep pushing, sweet girl. I ain’t lettin’ you go.”
“I’m here.”
“Oh, honey-honey- you- push, push!”
“Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Baby, you did it. You did it.”
All at once, the only thing in the world is the shrill cry being lifted up into the air. There it is; a small, disgusting-looking, screaming little bundle of limbs being handled by the doctor. Your entire body is shaking, your breaths ragged and uneven, your face soaked with tears and sweat.
“Would Daddy like to cut the cord?” one of the nurses asks.
Joel looks at you, his own face slick with sweat, his eyes haggard with exhaustion, his expression an elated, buoyant radiance.
“Yes,” you whimper.
He wastes no time, moving where they tell him, reaching in where they order him to, laughing this laugh you’ve never, ever heard from him before.
It’s clear that Joel is utterly exuberant, on cloud nine, pouring over with excitement and giddiness you’ve never been able to imagine him exuding.
Then, he disappears again, because the screaming little pile of limbs is being placed on your chest.
“It’s a boy,” Joel tells you, his voice wavering with unshed tears.
Of course it is, you think, a giggle bubbling up from your lips, which taste salty with tears. It only makes sense of course, considering the two of you have been calling the poor thing she for nine months.
You look down at him, his scrunched little face, his eyes squeezed shut, a swoop of dark hair, his wailing lungs, and you fall into pieces right there in the bed. Something you’ve never quite grasped, a word that’s for so long meant something more akin to emotional torture and displeasure. Something you’d always hoped would define you, but never really let yourself believe.
Mom.
And holy shit, you’re a mom.
“H-hi little guy,” you weep, tracing the shape of his plump little cheek with your index finger, “I’m your mommy.”
If he understands a word you’re saying, the perfect little guy gives no indication. He does, however, seem to settle against your chest, cries tamping down to a more confused, muted series of sounds.
“He’s perfect,” Joel whispers against your hair, kissing your head a few times like he can’t bring himself to stop. “You’re amazing, you fuckin’ did it, baby.”
“I-I did it,” you agree, voice breaking and cracking with tears soaking your skin. “He’s here. Our son .”
“Our son,” Joel repeats, his own words choked as you hear the hitch in his throat and just know he’s begun to cry alongside you.
It’s immediate the way it strikes you; a feeling of fullness you’ve never had before. It’s miraculous in itself, how sudden and complete the shift is. You’ve spent so much time afraid of being alone, not wanting to end up like your own mother, that you’d never even considered the fact that you can’t ever really be alone. Not with your son in your arms. Not ever again.
“M’gonna be the best mommy, I promise,” you tell him, voice trembling, “I’m gonna give you the best goddamn life, okay?”
Joel laughs breathlessly beside you, his large arm circling around to cage you and the baby within it. You’ve never felt so fucking safe before.
“She will,” he whispers to the baby, “so will I.”
You crane your neck to look up at Joel, who’s eyes meet yours with an unabashed reverence that nearly takes your breath away.
“I love you,” is all you can think to say to him.
“I love you more,” Joel replies. And then he says the most perfect thing of all. “I love him, too.”
Being alone couldn’t seem more far away at that moment.
It’s several hours before you finally feel like a person again.
Between the ordeal that is the afterbirth - and trust, no book or class or educational 80s video could ever prepare you for how fucking heinous that part is- and getting the baby cleaned and checked over (9 apgar score, thank you very much) it’s a while before you can get cleaned up.
You had opted out of the epidural, so you aren’t feeling sluggish after all is said and done. One of the devastatingly kind nurses helps clean you up in the adjacent room shower, and helps you with the monstrous diaper that you’re going to be rocking for a while.
Then, you’re in comfortable pajamas, propped up on a mountain of stiff hospital pillows, your sleeping baby curled up in a swaddle. His soft hair rests in the crook of your elbow, the pastel blue blanket cuddling his arms to his body, his lashes flush against his cheeks. He’s making these noises- these little baby sighs of soft contentment that just make your heart absolutely wrench in your chest.
Joel is there in the dimly lit room, knees sprawled on the chair beside the bed, pen in hand, clipboard in the other as he helps you fill out the yucky paperwork part of it all. You’re currently on the birth certificate.
“Alright then honey,” Joel says, glancing up at you with those warm brown eyes, “this little guy needs a name.”
You look down at his perfect face; cherubic cheeks, little button nose, pursed lips. Smiling, you glance back at Joel.
“Alright, I’ve got it. You ready?”
“Hit me.”
“My last name, obviously.”
“Of course.”
“For his first and middle, Jacob Joel.”
His head snaps up to look at you, wide-eyed. “Wh-really?”
“Yeah. A boy should have his father’s name.”
“Shit.” Joel breathes, lip quivering. “Baby, I don’t know what to s-”
“Don’t say, just write.”
He grins, blinking rapidly so you don’t see the tears drip down his cheeks. Joel fills in what you instruct, then passes you the paper for you to sign your name under MOTHER .
Once he’s got the birth certificate back, his eyes scan the page. “I think we’re about done here.”
Clearing your throat, you say, “you know, I actually never got to finish what I was asking you in the tub.”
“What’s that, honey?”
You glance down at your son’s sleeping face, a surge of confidence bursting through your chest. You’d been nervous to ask this earlier, but now, looking down at this baby, it’s hard to be afraid of anything.
“Well, I was thinking maybe for father…it should say Joel Miller.”
You can see how much you’ve stunned him by the way he goes still, eyes widening, jaw going slack. You smile shyly, tucking the baby a little closer to your soft stomach.
“Only if…that’s what you want,” you add.
In lieu of a reply, Joel drops the clipboard on to the chair beside him. He stands, leaning over the bed and taking your face in both hands.
He kisses you, hard and firm, so much emotion pouring through from his mouth to yours that it feels almost electrifying. You submit, holding the baby to your chest, feeling his love fill you up when you were already so full you could burst.
It’s a while before he pulls back, tears on his lips, though you don’t know if they’re his or yours. He keeps his palms cupping your cheeks, blinking slow, breathing heavy.
“Is that a yes?” you gasp.
“Are you kidding me?” Joel picks up the pen and clipboard, quickly scrawling his name. He turns it around to show you.
FATHER: Joel Antonio Miller
“Huh,” you muse, “didn’t know your middle name was Antonio.”
He snorts. “ That’s all you got to say?”
You giggle, adjusting carefully so little Jacob isn’t too jostled. “You’re right. How about, I love you, and thank you for being here, and mowing my lawn, and fixing my AC and just generally being the most wonderful human on earth. Thanks for being my neighbor. Thanks for being my friend, Joel.”
He cups his hand lovingly around Jacob’s head, thumb soothing the gentlest strokes over the boy’s hair.
“I’m the one who should be thankin’ you,” Joel breathes, “you’ve given me everything, honey. My little girl has a family now. I have a partner. A beautiful baby. I couldn’t ask for nothin’ more.”
“I love you,” you tell him firmly.
“I love you more.” He replies, and kisses you again.
You’re dizzy when he pulls away smiling. Gently, you lift the baby toward him as an invitation.
Joel reaches for Jacob with the utmost care, settling him in the crook of his large arm like he was made to be there.
It looks so right, Joel standing there, holding your baby with awe and deep reverence on his face. This baby he’s been caring for the past nine months, helping to feed, helping to grow, nurturing, and loving before he was even born. A partner to you, a father to Jacob, everything you’d ever wanted in someone to share your life with.
The grouchy man next door, the one you’d met by pure coincidence, now the father of your child. Now, your family when for so long you had none.
“Tommy’s gonna be so jealous,” Joel muses, “first son in the Miller family since us.”
You grin. “He’s outnumbered, he’s in trouble.”
“We’ll look after him.”
“I know.” And when you say it, you mean it wholeheartedly.
Joel smiles over at you, still cradling the baby in his expert arms. Your chest swells with a rush of warmth and affection.
Your neighbor Joel.
“I will have to find a way to get ahold of Big Jacob,” you say thoughtfully, leaning back against your pillows with a sigh of contentment. “Let him know someone a little cuter shares his name.”
Joel looks at you with confusion, glancing down at the baby before meeting your eyes again, brows pinched. There’s no recognition in his eyes.
“You’re kidding me,” you deadpan. “ Jacob !”
Joel hums a noise of acknowledgement that, at first, you think is him finally remembering the boy who’d driven you to the hospital that fateful night weeks ago.
Instead, he just cuddles the baby to his chest, and looks at you like he always does. As if you’re insane.
“Who the hell is Jacob?”
“I’ve got it-damnit, stop.”
“Joel, let me-”
“No heavy lifting, the doctor said.”
“He’s six pounds!”
“How much you think this goddamn car seat weighs?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, I can lift-”
“Welcome home!”
Your argument is interrupted as you push the front door open, wide-eyed to see Tommy, Maria, Sarah, and her little cousin in your living room. There’s a banner hanging from the wall, cheerful pink with little bows and hearts that says IT’S A GIRL BOY! The word girl is crossed out with black sharpie and written over.
Sarah bounds toward you, squealing with excitement. She breezes past you with a quick “HI!” before beelining to her father, who’s currently stepping in through the front door with Jacob in his carseat loaded up on his arm.
“Easy, honey,” Joel warns her in a low voice, “he’s sleepin’.”
“Oh my god he’s so cute!” she whispers excitedly.
You step aside from her to accept Tommy’s open arms, falling against his chest with a disbelieving sigh of relief. Maria, holding their daughter Rosie, smiles at you.
“I-I can’t believe you guys, thank you.” Your face is muffled by Tommy’s flannel shirt, but the wobbly note of tears is still audible. You’re so fucking sensitive right now, hormones .
“How you feelin’ honey?” Tommy asks as the two of you separate and Maria tucks you in for a quick hug.
You decide not to tell him the truth, that your vagina hurts like a bitch and you’re wearing a diaper under your sweats and your tits feel like they’re aching to burst at pretty much any given moment. It doesn’t seem like the time.
“I’m amazing,” you say, and it isn’t a lie. You’ve never felt so full- so satisfied and happy and content.
Joel’s at your side then, holding the carrier up so his brother and sister-in-law can get a look at the sleeping Jacob.
“Oh, shit.” Tommy’s hand covers his mouth, and you see his eyes soften. “Oh, he’s beautiful.”
“He’s perfect,” Joel agrees, his own gaze still set lovingly on the baby.
“We thought it was gonna be a girl,” Sarah tells you regretfully, gesturing to the crude banner. “But I fixed it after Daddy called and said he was a brother, not a sister.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I think it’s perfect. Thank you sweetheart.”
She hugs you tightly, pressing her cheek into your side with a soft breath. “I like this. Daddy looks so happy, you do too.”
“We are,” you tell her, bending down to kiss her forehead affectionately. “Are you happy, honey?”
“Yes!” She exclaims, looking almost offended that you’d even ask. “It’s show and tell next week at school, can I bring him?”
You blink. “Uh, well-”
“Sarah Yvonne Miller are you hittin’ the crack pipe?” Joel scoffs, hefting Jacob’s carrier a little higher on his arm.
“He thinks I don't know what that means,” she murmurs conspiratorially at you.
Giggling, you reply, “maybe you can take him for show and tell when he’s a little older.”
Joel gives you a look as if to say: nice going, she won’t forget that.
“Well, are y’all hungry?” Tommy asks, gesturing toward the kitchen. “We brought some food.”
Your stomach growls in anticipation, and it’s everything in your power not to cry with another swell of emotion. Gratitude, affection, a complete and utter disbelief that this is your world right now.
“Hungry, baby?” Joel asks you gently. He’s been so caring with you, so patient and affectionate. He seems to anticipate your needs before you do, and when he doesn’t he’s quick to ask what you need so he can do it for you. He’s been here, every step of the way, exactly how he’d promised.
“Starving,” you reply, reaching for the carrier, “let me just put him down.”
“Ah-ah,” Joel tucks the car seat to his chest, “no heavy liftin’. We’ll put him down, y’all go ahead and get started.”
Rolling your eyes, you give the others a grateful nod and follow Joel toward the stairs. You’ve opted to keep him in your room for the time being in the little bedside bassinet, so Joel heads that way.
You perch on the edge of the bed, watching as Joel carefully maneuvers the sleeping baby out of his carrier. His hands are expert, tender, so utterly gentle with your son that it’s enough to spring tears to the corners of your eyes again.
Joel lowers him into the bassinet, shushing his quiet whimpers with a gentle, “s’okay little man, Daddy’s here. You’re alright. I gotcha sweetpea.”
And you see it all right then; in such a stark contrast to your own childhood. A child, growing up with two parents, two people so in love that they chose each other. Chose family. A child with a father to throw a ball in the yard with him after school, a mother to help with his science homework, a big sister to tease him but always have his back when he needs it. Parents with time, parents who care, parents who will never make him feel as though his existence is a burden to them.
You do cry then, letting the tears wash down your cheeks as Joel situates Jacob in his bassinet and quickly moves to your side, tucking you against his chest. He’s no stranger to the swift shift of your mood the past few days, riding out the emotions with you as easily as he does everything else.
“Take a breath, honey,” Joel murmurs, “you’re okay.”
“I’m happy,” you sniffle wetly.
He chuckles, a tired, dry sound. “Clearly.”
“I am, I am. I’m just…” You think of the perfect little baby in the bassinet, the family downstairs waiting to feed you, the wonderful man holding you. “I’m full. Never felt so full. This is what I always dreamed of when I was a kid. Family. And he’ll have it.”
“He will,” Joel says firmly, his grip tightening just a bit. “And so will you. Always.”
“Always.” You nod in agreement, your chest warm at how easy the word is to believe these days.
Joel kisses the top of your head, letting you take this moment, not rushing you.
“I wish I could tell her,” you finally say.
“What, honey?”
“I wish I could tell my mom that this would happen. That I’m still here. That she has a grandson.” You wipe at your eyes, sighing heavily. “I wish she could’ve had what I have.”
“I wish that too,” Joel murmurs earnestly.
“I’m gonna put him in those little overalls she saved for me,” you continue, sniffling, “the Pooh ones.”
“I think she’d like that,” Joel agrees.
“She would.” You nod, looking up at him. He meets your gaze, offering you the faintest hint of a gentle smile. “Thanks babe.”
“I didn’t do nothin’ sweetie, this was all you. You made this happen.”
You smile back at him, lashes sticky with tears. “ We made it happen.”
“Damn right.” He kisses your head again, breathing softly. “Let’s get some food in you, darlin’. You gotta feed him in an hour. Need to eat first.”
“Okay.” You glance at the bassinet, then at his face. “I’m gonna sit down in bed for a while, feeling drained.”
“I’ll bring yours up. You want company, or you wanna be alone for now?”
Your eyes land on the baby, and you can’t pull away. The room is quiet, content, serene. Honestly, you’d like nothing more than to sit in this warmth, this cocoon of calm, this intimate space between you and your baby.
Your family is waiting downstairs, but oddly enough, you're not desperate to cling to their presence. You know they aren’t going anywhere. You look back at Joel firmly, offering him a beaming smile.
“I think I’m okay with being alone.”