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He doesn’t know how she does it, but she makes his birthday one of his favourite days outside of Christmas. He’s missed the hell out of her while she’s been away finishing her tour—her largest one yet. Arenas and stadiums across the globe, screaming fans doubling and tripling after the success of her latest album. He’d been on tour too, with the boys; nothing as intense as what she was doing, but he still found the time to complain down the phone to her about how sick he was of singing all the songs about her because he missed her so badly.
“I don’t have a single song that isn’t about you,” she’d laughed. “You get to croon about your exes all night long, so give me a break!”
She had a point there...
Britt’s flight was meant to arrive the night before, but it was heavily delayed. She told him to go to bed, and in the morning she’d call once she landed so he could pick her up. But there’s one thing he always forgets about his wife, and it’s that sometimes she’s a dirty fucking liar.
When he wakes up, the clouds have finally parted after days of gloom, streaming fresh sunlight into the bedroom. And Brittany’s tongue is running along the length of his hardened cock. He gasps as her lips kiss the tip before he’s enveloped in wet heat as she takes him into her mouth. Her nails scratch at the sensitive skin of his lower belly, and his fingers twist into her hair.
Best birthday ever.
~ ~ ~
The party is in full swing; a few people have already been thrown into the pool, and they have to keep yanking Mayhem’s collar to stop him from trying to jump onto the table with the food, but everyone is having a good time otherwise. The lights in the garden are hazy as Ross pours him another glass of red wine while they’re talking, and he can already feel the hangover he’s going to have tomorrow. Lighting a cigarette, he blows the smoke away from Britt’s face when she sidles up next to him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing herself impossibly close as he settles his free arm around her.
She’s been drinking tequila all night, her poison of choice since coming home from her tour, so he’s not surprised when she starts slowly grinding against him under the guise of dancing. He places a hand on her hip to get her to stand still, but Ross gets distracted by another conversation, and Britt twists around and crushes her mouth over his. Her tongue slides over his and God, he’s missed this—being messy after a few drinks, being at a party where, even though all their friends are around, she still wants his complete attention because he is the only one that matters. It makes him feel golden, the way she needs him, the way she makes him feel wanted all the time. There are low whistles and people jeering, but he flips them off with the hand that’s holding the back of her head.
They last another hour of not-so-innocent touches and heavy looks across the garden before escaping inside the bounce house they’d hired for the weekend. They’ve had public sex before. He fucked her on one of the sunloungers in their backyard last summer and knows for a fact that one of the neighbours was watching. There was also that time at Electric Lady when they accidentally got locked on the rooftop and he had to fuck her to keep warm. (Shut up, it was medically necessary, and he wasn’t about to let either of them freeze to death.)
She pushes him into the darkest corner, crawling across his lap, sliding her mouth along his jaw as she helps him undo his belt and slide down the zipper on his jeans. The bass from the speakers makes the vinyl walls he’s pressed against vibrate and there’s little time for foreplay, and really, it’s not necessary at this point. He helps her hike her skirt up over her hips and uses his free hand to guide himself inside her.
They both gasp as she inches down, moving so slowly it feels like he might die. She pauses for a moment when she can’t take any more of him, and he gets distracted by the sound of a glass breaking outside. His attention is solely on her when she starts rolling her hips, rising until barely his tip is still inside her before slamming down again. He’s breathless, gasping with every movement, and he seriously thinks his eyes are going to fall out of his head as he watches her rock.
They’ve never had sex where any of their friends could see them if they bothered to look through the mesh panelling that makes up the sides of the bounce house. Thankfully, there’s enough food and drink to keep everyone distracted; plus, George is spinning the tunes and Charli is rallying people on the dancefloor.
Brittany’s hips meet his with every thump of the bass, and this might just be the best sex they’ve ever had. Her hair is messy, he’s dragged her strapless top down so her tits are exposed to the cooling air, and her pupils are completely blown as she looks at him.
Smashing their mouths together, he can feel the tightening in his stomach as he hurtles closer to the edge. Rubbing his thumb over her clit, she pants his name, gripping his shoulders and practically sobs as her orgasm crashes over her. Spilling inside her with a grunt, the sky above them illuminates with fireworks that could’ve only been obtained illegally.
He fucking loves his birthday.
~ ~ ~
(Actually, maybe it's not his birthday. Maybe it's her.)
It's always her.
~ ~ ~
Neither of them knows how they knew, but waking up the following morning with what could only be described as the worst hangovers in the world, they’re both sure she’s pregnant. She’d come off the pill months ago and they hadn’t exactly been trying, but if something were to happen, they felt ready for it. When Brittany starts vomiting every day a few weeks after the party, they take a test.
It’s not like the last few times they had to take a pregnancy test—when they were both stressed out of their minds and trying to rearrange all the plans they had for the future. They’d had plenty of scares in the past, when they hadn’t been careful enough because they’d had too much to drink, or the condom broke, or the pill just wasn’t as effective at the time. The experience of sitting in the bathroom with their phones counting down the minutes wasn’t foreign.
The feeling of wanting the tests to be positive, though? That was new. The timer goes off and neither of them moves.
He pictures her, belly round and peeking out the bottom of her tank tops as they walk around the markets on Sundays. He pictures her pushing their baby in the stroller around London and their toddler opening presents under the Christmas tree at Grandma’s while it snows outside. He imagines himself as a parent, someone's dad and his stomach drops. The challenge feels enormous, like a mountain that's too big to climb. He stops picturing things and looks at Brittany, standing in front of him, instead.
Britt held her bottom lip between her teeth and kept inhaling sharply, like she kept forgetting to breathe and had to remind herself. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking inside his pockets (he was trying for nonchalance), because this could be it. He’d accomplished everything in his professional life, and all that was left was the personal stuff.
He’s got the girl, he’s got the house with the metaphorical white picket fence—now he wants the 2.5 kids.
It doesn’t matter what the stupid sticks say, because he’s going to have a baby with her, no matter what—no matter how long it takes or how it happens. They’ll figure it out.
The sticks all having double lines does take a lot of the pressure off, though.
Tears burst from his eyes and Britt can’t stop giggling as she throws herself onto him. Her arms weave around his neck and her legs wrap around his waist as her lips press against his, but it’s hard to kiss her back because he can’t stop smiling.
Finding out they’re going to have a baby is seriously on par with one of the best moments of his life. (Britt got Blink-182—the original lineup—to play at their wedding as a surprise for him, and seeing the two lines appear on the shitty tests from Boots honestly trumps it.) Their doctor confirms it for them via a blood test that makes his wife almost faint when the needle appears, and they cry in the car together after receiving the news.
It’s surreal because even as she’s being sick into the toilet every morning, they both can’t stop grinning. It’s so early on that it’s currently the only evidence they have of a baby growing inside her that isn’t a piece of paper or a stick she had to pee on.
At their 8-week scan, they see the mass of cells that make up their baby for the first time. The image is blurry, and they can make out a bean-shaped figure, but it’s so early and the footage is so terrible that it could literally be anything inside her. He’s still so overwhelmed that he cries.
“Did you want to hear the heartbeat?” Their nurse is sweet and seems to enjoy them losing their shit constantly, so he knows she’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching him fall apart.
With a flick of a switch, static noise fills the room, and they listen intently, straining until they hear it. He grabs her hand and probably squeezes her fingers too tightly, but when the repetitive thump echoes across the room, it is deafening. He kisses Brittany’s fingers through his tears, and the nurse gives them a moment alone. They sit there silently, listening to it—the thump that never ends, that persists and becomes more real with every second.
They get to leave with a recording of it on a CD, and they listen to it on the car ride home, feeling so ecstatic that they don’t even know what to do with themselves.
~ ~ ~
He’s never been good at keeping secrets, and this is the most important one he’s ever had to keep. George and the boys question his disappearances lately, and he manages to get them off his trail by making a gross statement about which parts of him Britt had missed while she’d been away. They stop asking after that.
Britt, of course, finds out and helps turn the lie into the truth when she pulls his pants off.
He loves his wife.
He thinks he might love the pregnancy hormones more.
~ ~ ~
Britt’s birthday is far more low-key than his own. A couple of their friends come around (because he had the foresight to buy a house with a pool—unlike everyone else who settled for their flats in Soho), and they lay out a spread across the outdoor dining area: crisps, cheeses, and random other bits that had looked good in Waitrose.
He’s relegated to waiter duty, and honestly, it's been hardly difficult at all keeping their secret. While everyone is drinking Pimm’s, he can fill Britt’s glass with fruit and lemonade, and nobody is any the wiser. Either that, or their friends are painfully oblivious—but he likes to think they’re smarter than that.
They spend the day splashing around or lying in the sun. Charli’s skin browns with practically every second spent outdoors, and freckles are beginning to dot the tops of Britt’s shoulders.
“Can you do me?”
It takes him a second to understand what she’s asking as she holds out the bottle of suncream and—look—this day has already been hard enough. Pun intended. He’s already been half-hard for most of the afternoon — the sun, her skin, that bikini. He knew he was in for a ride when he watched her pull it out of the drawer this morning. She’d made comments, wondering how long she could get away with wearing it before it became too indecent, and all he could picture was the changes about to happen to her body towards the end of the year.
She isn’t really showing yet. There’s a small swell to her lower stomach that could be explained away by a large breakfast, but the top didn’t cover much before. Now, almost twelve weeks in? He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check as it is.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, I can do it.”
Taking the bottle from her hands, she smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, and he pops the cap. Rubbing his hands over her soft skin, he massages in the cream and tries to think of a million things other than his tightening shorts and the way she moans quietly as his thumbs work over her lower back.
“You’re looking a little red, Matty,” Charli teases from her sunlounger. “Maybe you need to cool off.”
Rolling his eyes, he tips the last of the ice in Charli’s glass over her bare stomach, and she squeals. Kissing the back of Britt’s cheek, he grabs the empty glasses and heads back inside.
He’s just finished rinsing them out and placing them on the drying rack when the back door opens and closes quickly.
“It’s too hot,” Britt moans, and she presses against his side like she fully intends to make it hotter.
She watches their friends out the window, and he absentmindedly drags his nails over the bare skin of her back—goosebumps rising on her flesh—then down over her hip and her bikini bottoms. She shakes him off with a laugh under her breath.
“Don’t start,” she warns.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Liar.”
He drops a kiss to her shoulder, still warm from the sun, and still tasting like suncream and let’s be clear here—she’s the one who tilts her head to give him better access. He trails his mouth along her jaw, and her hands wind up in his hair as she tries not to let on just how turned on he’s gotten her in the few seconds they’ve been alone.
“Matty,” she whines and he turns her around, slotting himself between her legs before she can protest.
A shout of laughter erupts from the garden, muffled through the glass. George probably. Her eyes go dark as he grabs her thighs and lifts her onto the counter with practiced ease. The stone is cold beneath her, and she lets out a hiss as it touches her overheated skin that he ignores, choosing instead to move down her chest, pushing her top aside and scraping his teeth across her nipple. She gasps like all the air in her lungs has been knocked out of her, her hands threading into his hair as he travels down her torso, his lips grazing just beside her belly button.
Her fingers shake as she helps him push her bikini bottoms down just enough, and he fucking loves summer.
~ ~ ~
There’s a date circled on their shared digital calendar that neither their assistants nor Jamie has noticed. Even though they both check it every single morning and know exactly how many days away they are from hitting another checkpoint, they still count them down until they can finally start telling family and friends the good news.
Denise and Lincoln meet them in the city for afternoon drinks (lemonades for Britt) after another Loose Women taping, and it goes about as well as they expect. Tears well in his mum’s eyes before they can even get the words out—of course she knew—before she bursts into dramatic sobs and Lincoln doesn’t know what to say, so he just hugs them both, jaw hung open in awe.
“Good news?” The sarcasm is too easy to drip into Denise’s ears, and she doesn’t even smack him for it.
“I’m so thrilled!” She wipes under her eyes with a paper napkin, her eye makeup smudging, and holds his hand tightly, squeezing his fingers. “A baby!”
His dad is a bit more subdued, congratulating them and wrapping his arms around them both. He does wipe a few tears away when Britt calls him “Grandad,” though, and he’s not sure he’ll ever forget the look on his dad’s face.
Mr. Davis gives a curt “Congratulations” before hanging up the phone when they tell him. He hadn’t expected much—since the old man hated his guts—but he thought, for Britt’s sake, he might pretend a little more to be happy for them.
Still, they make the trip out to New York to see him, and Britt spends most of the flight being sick in the bathroom, while he spends it pacing outside the door, worrying about her.
“What do you think he’s going to say when you see him?” he wonders, trying to keep her mind off her rolling stomach.
“God, I have no idea.” She buckles her belt as she settles into her seat again, and he grabs her hand. “I don’t think he’ll be breaking out into song.”
Biting back a laugh that threatens to escape loudly, they pick a movie to watch together for the last part of the flight.
By the time they land, he’s exhausted from walking the length of the plane and pretending he isn’t panicked. Britt keeps insisting she’s fine, but every time she disappears into the tiny bathroom, his stomach knots so tightly he’s shocked he can still stand upright.
He figures she’ll want to head straight to her old building, but instead she drags him along.
“You got me into this mess—you don’t get to back out now.” She yanks his arm, practically bouncing on her toes, mischief written all over her face.
She rings the buzzer at the top of the stoop, pressing it over and over like she’s desperate to irritate anyone who has to listen to it.
“Stop it!” comes a grumpy voice through the intercom. “Come on up already.”
The front door unclicks, and they push through. Every time he comes here, he marvels at how anyone could climb all those flights every single day—sometimes multiple times. Mr. Davis is in his nineties and does the trip every morning for his newspaper and coffee. Outrageous.
His door is open when they reach the top of the stairs, and the kettle is whistling with three mugs on the counter. Interesting. He’d thought the old man would’ve jumped at the chance to make him feel uncomfortable for even a second.
“Come in, come in,” he says briskly. No complaints, no snide jokes. Something’s off.
They’re told to put their coats on the rack by the door, and he shares a confused look with Britt. There was a sense of urgency today that was new—Mr. Davis didn’t usually hover by the doorway like he’d been waiting for them.
“I’ve got something for the both of ya,” Mr. Davis says, hobbling toward the bedroom and bracing himself on the wall. “Figured you might need something like it.”
He’s never been in the bedroom before, and his hesitation makes him feel five years old—like he’s not allowed in there. But then Britt breathes out an “Oh my god” and steps into the room, so he feels like he can’t stay behind.
Inside lies an ornate, handmade wooden crib, small swirls carved into the headboard and tiny little bumblebees handcrafted along the sides, along with one small June bug. Tiny engravings decorate every inch, and it’s so delicate and so special that, for once in his life, he’s speechless—because they made a baby that’s going to fit into this crib. In front of him is the first bed their child will ever sleep in, aside from their own. It’s so small. Too small to believe a real person—their person—will fit inside it.
Tears slip down his cheeks as he runs his hands over the wood, and Britt sobs her gratitude. Mr. Davis looks uncomfortable at the display of emotion but returns his handshake when he thanks him.
He thinks they’ve never been so happy. He also knows how annoying they’re both becoming. He used to roll his eyes at Adam and Carly and swear he’d never be that soft. Now here he is—crying like the sappiest motherfucker alive.
~ ~ ~
She doesn’t really get cravings like he thought she might. He’d somewhat prepared with the typical stuff — ice cream in the freezer, a jar of pickles in the pantry — but most of it remained unopened as time went on. He’d also googled the opening hours of the Big Tesco around the corner as an emergency option, but so far, nothing.
Then it happens.
“The baby wants a roast dinner,” Britt pouts, her bottom lip protruding.
“Put that away,” he snorts, poking the plush flesh back with his thumb. “Is Toby Carvery open?”
“Matty,” she whines childishly, scrunching up her face in disgust.
“I’m joking!”
She lets out another annoyed groan, and he helps her into the car. They go to a pub in London, hidden down an alleyway, away from prying eyes, and they’re one of the few people inside. After picking a table, he goes to the bar and orders for them both — plus a red wine for him and a lemonade for her. It’s not exactly the poshest joint in the world, but it’s got a certain charm: oil paintings, dark red carpet, and an American-style jukebox in the corner crooning an old Roy Orbison tune.
Britt’s jacket is draped across the back of her chair, and her legs twist with his under the table when he sits down. It’s nice. Innocent. They don’t really do dates like this anymore, and he makes a mental note to start again before the baby arrives.
When the food arrives, she digs in excitedly, but after a few bites, she pushes her fork around the plate with a disappointed sigh.
“What’s up?” The food’s fine — not the best roast he’s ever had, but far from the worst.
“I don’t know. It’s not what I wanted.”
She looks confused by her own wants as she picks at her plate, and he finishes his wine before they head home again. How hard can a bloody roast be? It’s meat and potatoes, not a Michelin star menu, for fuck’s sake. Still, he keeps his mouth shut, because she’s already frustrated and he’s trying to be supportive.
He wouldn’t say she was in a mood for the rest of the day, but the cogs in her brain are definitely turning as she tries to process something. She doesn’t get like this often anymore — tangled up in her own thoughts and emotions. She hates not understanding her own brain — it makes her feel fourteen again, overwhelmed by emotions she couldn’t name. She’s mostly worked through her issues, but he’s been wondering if there would come a time when things she’d forgotten about might start making their way to the surface again.
(Look, he would never call them that to her face because it feels insensitive, but ‘issues’ is putting it mildly — and he loves her and wouldn’t change a thing. Especially not now.)
They’re half asleep on the couch, too lazy to go up to bed, when she starts groaning about wanting another roast dinner. He won’t complain. She’s growing a whole-ass baby right now, and this is his chance to make up for the shitty roast she had earlier. She comes with him to Tesco, picking out the potatoes and choosing the cut of beef she wants.
He stays up until 4 a.m. cooking, and when he shakes her awake to eat, she takes a few bites before nervously telling him that it still isn’t right.
Taking a deep breath, he keeps his cool.
“What is it that you actually want?” He’s not trying to be mean; he’s trying to get it right.
“It’s too… rich? I don’t know. I just know it’s wrong.” She shrugs, guilty and disappointed.
He sighs, throwing the dirty trays into the sink and scrubbing the layers of oil and fat off to burn off some of his aggression. He reminds himself this is pregnancy. Not her fault. Definitely not a personal attack—even if it feels like he’s failed some unspoken test.
“I’m really sorry,” she whispers after a moment, tears in her eyes.
“No, it’s fine, stop.” He rushes to her side as she bites her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Swallowing his frustration, she looks miserable and he loves her too much to let this turn into something it’s not. “Go back to bed, and we’ll sort it out in the morning, alright?”
She nods, getting up from the bench and heading upstairs, a very tired Mayhem trailing behind her slowly. He briefly considers driving to the Big Tesco again, even though it’s nearly five in the morning. At this point, he’d break into the bloody place if it meant getting it right. And he wouldn’t even feel bad about it.
~ ~ ~
His mum invites herself over to stay. He’s fine with it, but it’s been a sensitive time lately. They’re both stumbling through landmines they didn’t know pregnancy would uncover, doing their best to navigate Britt’s changing hormones and ready themselves for what’s coming at the end of their long nine-month wait.
Honestly, it’s kind of nice having her around, even though she drives him nuts. She tidies the house and helps them sort through the ever-growing pile of miscellaneous crap that accumulates at the bottom of the stairs because they’re too lazy to take it with them as they go.
He knows it’s been really great for Britt, though. She and his mum sit on the couch every night after dinner, just talking. Not even the TV is on — just the low hum of the house and the clink of plates as he washes up. He pretends he isn’t listening, but he thinks maybe these talks are more helpful than he’ll ever understand.
Before his mum arrived, they’d had many talks about their fears. The heavy-handed addiction gene is the one that sticks out for him. His mum battled addiction, and he’s been California sober for over a decade, but chances are this is going to be a problem that will rear its ugly head. He’s been doing a lot of reading and even went to a few NA meetings, but he still feels completely unprepared. He catches himself googling things late at night — not names or nursery colours, but warning signs.
How early is too early? What’s genetic and what’s learned? He clears his browser history before she ever wakes up.
Britt, on the other hand…
Look, he knows how hard she’s working through her stuff. It doesn’t hang over her the way it used to, but he thinks she’s quite possibly losing her mind. Some of it can be explained away by hormones, but other times he has no idea how she gets from one thought to another.
His mum ends up staying for almost two weeks. He loves the woman—adores her—and honestly thinks he lucked out in the parent department (especially compared to some people he knows…), but it’s time for her to go. She hasn’t overstayed her welcome (she never could), but he wants to appreciate this time with Britt—their first baby, their first pregnancy—together.
Soon enough, she picks up on his hints and packs her bags.
(He also wants to fuck Brittany the way she likes without worrying that his mother, sleeping down the hall, can hear him fucking his wife.)
“Are you sure you have to go?” Brittany asks quietly, smoothing the blanket on the bed.
“Yes, darling. Lincoln is hopeless without me,” Denise says softly as she folds clothes into her duffel. “You’ll be all right.”
“Lincoln could come up here for a bit?” Britt looks hopeful.
His mum gives him a look as she passes him her bag, and the guilt hits hard enough that he has to leave the room.
“I’ll see you soon, my sweet girl,” is murmured as he walks away.
Dinner is quiet that night. They eat leftovers from the night before—a roast that finally satisfied Britt’s cravings—their cutlery scraping sharply against the china plates.
“Is it okay that I love your mum?” Tears well in her lashes, and he’s used to this by now.
“Yeah, baby.” He keeps eating. They’ve had this conversation a million times before.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Her breath catches in her throat, and he passes her the box of tissues that always seems to be within arm’s reach these days.
“I feel so guilty,” she says as she blows her nose, and he stops chewing.
“Wha—?”
“It’s just really nice having that feeling back.” She sniffles. “Like I have a mum again.”
He feels his heart break.
~ ~ ~
The books on his side of the bed change slowly with time, from William Burroughs and David Foster Wallace to What to Expect When You’re Expecting and So You’re Going to Be a Dad.
It’s the first of many things that start changing around the house. They begin clearing out the spare room opposite their bedroom, filled with empty boxes from when they first moved in and furniture he didn’t know what to do with. He just about loses his mind when Britt tries to carry a rolled-up rug that had been lying dormant in the corner. The thing is stupidly heavy, and she’s not meant to be lifting anything. He delegates her to sorting through a box of random papers while he gets her another cup of tea.
He’s beginning to wonder if they should move up north. Their house in London is incredible, but he often thinks about how to raise a kid in the city versus being close to their family. With every phone call Britt makes to Denise with a question about their incoming baby, he thinks they might be making the wrong decision by staying in London.
He knows the moment he starts looking online at new houses that he’s probably going to end up falling in love with one. It’s a slippery slope, and it’s not like he’s keeping it a secret from Britt; he just doesn’t want her to worry about moving unless she has to. He might not find anything that suits them and what they need, and all of this could be for nothing. It’s just research. He catches himself zooming in on floor plans, counting stairs, imagining baby gates before he even realises what he’s doing.
Their place in Belsize Park is perfect for them, but he won’t lie and say the steep staircase leading to the bedrooms on the second floor hasn’t worried him from time to time. Britt has already slipped down them once, running around the house in her socks. She’d laughed it off, but the bruises down her spine didn’t fade for weeks and made his stomach twist every time he caught sight of them beneath her shirt.
He doesn’t want to imagine what would happen if someone slipped while holding their new baby — or how he’d survive seeing marks like that again.
~ ~ ~
Britt can feel the baby moving, and he’s so fucking jealous it borders on psychotic.
“It’s like butterflies,” she explains, guiding his hands to where their baby is inside her. He goes still, like that might somehow help. It doesn’t.
The look on her face kind of makes up for his disappointment, though.
She looks at him like she might be totally in love with him or something.
She’s perfect.
~ ~ ~
At the 18-week checkup, they’re offered the chance to find out the sex of their baby. He swallows hard, imagining the tiny hands and hair, and pretends to care less than he does. Looking at Britt, she bites her lip in thought. Personally, he has no issue with finding out now versus later — at least, that’s what he tells himself. He doesn’t have a preference, because it kind of doesn’t even matter.
(He’s also a fucking liar, because he wants a girl so bloody badly. A mini-Matty would be karma for all the torture he put his own family and friends through, but a little girl? A mini version of his wife would be the ultimate reward.)
Brittany shakes her head and asks for it to remain a surprise.
~ ~ ~
He feels the baby kick for the first time.
Britt screams his name from the shower, and it scares him so badly he thinks he’s going to collapse—his heart pounding, lungs frozen—until he realizes what’s happening.
“Come feel!”
He’s still wearing his sweatpants when he gets under the scalding running water with her. He places his hands over her stomach, feeling the warm skin beneath his palms, and she presses them down gently—and there it is. A tiny kick into his palm. He freezes, feeling it again, and tears spring to his eyes. He sputters out a wet laugh, unable to stop smiling.
“Did you feel that?” she whispers, and he nods, laughing through tears, still amazed.
~ ~ ~
Denise and Charli organize their—well, Britt’s—baby shower in September. He’s been banished from the event but still drops her off at The Bloomsbury, where their family and friends have completely taken over the hotel’s high tea for the afternoon.
His mum comes back to their place for the night, and he shows her the listing for a house he found online in Cheshire. It’s surrounded by land—more than enough for Mayhem and for another dog they’d been thinking about getting since Allen’s passing.
He can picture their life perfectly in this new house. The chicken coop, painted red like a little barn. Annie the cat chasing bugs and mice in the grass. They’d be able to get a proper playhouse and a little outdoor kitchen so their kid could play and make pies out of mud.
There’s no pool, he notes. Not a chance he’s giving up summers spent staring at his wife in that tiny black bikini—or sometimes, if he’s lucky, nothing at all.
He thinks the bay window that faces the driveway would be pretty perfect for a tree in December.
~ ~ ~
Britt’s gotten superstitious the closer she gets to the end of her pregnancy. They’re almost a month out from her due date, but she insists on bringing the hospital bag with them to Cheshire for the holidays—“just in case”—throwing it into the backseat as he locks up the house.
She’s more tired than anything lately. Her back aches, and she hasn’t been sleeping well at night because the baby won’t stop kicking. She sleeps a little in the passenger seat, the back of the chair reclined slightly, and fucks with the radio when she’s awake, scrunching her nose at songs she doesn’t like.
On the 23rd, his mum takes her for a walk around the property because going shopping at almost nine months pregnant is honestly a fucking nightmare. Even that seems to be too much for her, though, because she comes home complaining about acid reflux before disappearing to the bedroom to lie down.
On the 24th, he’s suspicious as hell because she’s quiet. Too quiet. She’s been checking the time on her phone all day and double-checked that her hospital bag is still in the back of the car. He follows her when she leaves the living room to hide in the bedroom again, watching as she leans against the dresser and breathes heavily for a moment.
“You’re totally about to have a baby,” he laughs.
She whips her head toward him, exhaling quickly.
“No, I’m not.” She grits her teeth. “I’m not having a kid born on Christmas Day.”
He wipes the hair off her forehead and helps her sit down on the bed. He sees her wince, hand tightening around his fingers. Another contraction hits, sharper this time, and his stomach twists in anticipation.
“I think it’s pretty safe to say that you’ve beaten the Virgin Mary allegations.”
She laughs before hissing another breath out as her contraction slows. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“How long have you known?” he wonders, wiping the bead of sweat that’s gathered on her forehead.
“Since this morning,” she says, leaning against him, resting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes, relief clearly flooding her system.
He can’t stop checking her face, memorizing every detail. How is it possible to love someone this much?
“How far apart are they?”
“Around eight minutes.”
“So, we’ve got a little bit of time.”
~ ~ ~
Yeah, so. They didn’t have a little bit of time. They didn’t even have a blink-of-an-eye amount of time. Within the hour, Lincoln had to rush them to the hospital, slamming down on the horn at every small inconvenience. Denise and Louis followed in the car behind them, weaving in and out of the Christmas Eve traffic.
They were admitted almost immediately, only pausing at the triage desk for a wheelchair before being whisked through the double white doors, leaving their old life behind. The next time they walked through them, they’d have a baby.
The thought was sobering.
Labour hit harder than he imagined. Nurses swarmed the room, checking blood pressure, charts, monitors. The doctor scribbled numbers, muttering something about dilation. Machines beeped rhythmically, antiseptic stung his nose, the bed was cold under her skin. He squeezes her hand. Push. Push. Another contraction. She cries out. The bed shakes. His heart races.
It was almost midnight when he sat behind her in the hospital bed. His hands trembled as he pressed against her back. Sweat dripped into his eyes; he wiped it away and gripped the bedrail so hard his knuckles whitened. He whispered encouragements, muttered prayers, anything to keep her going. She was exhausted beyond comprehension. Physically, he knew she could do it—but mentally, she was beginning to lapse. Her eyes were closed, and he could hear the nurses talking quietly nearby. Her heart rate was concerning them.
“What would we be doing if we weren’t here right now?” he whispered.
“Dancing,” she panted. “By the tree.”
Another contraction hit. She squeezed his hand so hard it hurt.
“Wanna do it tomorrow with our baby, then?”
A tear slid down her cheek. She nodded.
“Yeah,” she breathed.
He swallowed, brushing a hand over her hair. She sucked in a breath through her teeth as another contraction came, but she kept her focus.
“Alright,” he said to the nurses. They turned back, ready.
“Let’s fucking go!”
~ ~ ~
He hates getting on a plane when he sees a baby is also boarding. He hates walking the dogs at the park after 9 a.m., because it’s all mothers and their newborns in strollers, rolling around, making too much noise.
And then—his own child’s cries. The most incredible sound in the world. His heart stops and races all at once when Baby Healy finally arrives. The nurses wipe away the blood and other liquids—things he can’t bring himself to think about—and he stares in awe at Brittany fucking Jackson.
The girl who knocked him sideways from the moment they met. That moment feels a million years ago and also like it was yesterday. And now she’s done this. For them. For him.
A tiny, wriggling body is placed into her arms. Her eyes. His curly hair.
It doesn’t even feel real.
~ ~ ~
The recovery room is dark, but he can’t sleep. Britt is passed out in the bed, her breathing slow and steady, and if he’s not looking at their baby, he’s looking at her. Tiny fingers curl around his own, soft and warm, and he can’t stop staring. It’s his first real Sophie’s Choice. His fingers brush through her hair, smoothing out any tangles that have appeared, and he thinks about what the future might look like from here on out.
It’s new.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
He can’t wait.
He pulls out his phone.
~ ~ ~
It feels so fucking illegal to leave the hospital with their newborn child.
Seriously.
How the fuck are they allowed to just walk out the fucking front doors like this?!
(He’s not panicking. It’s fine!)
He’d left Britt for a few hours the day before to quickly set up the SUV for their trip home. They hadn’t thought to put the baby car seat—still sitting in its box in the garage at home—in the back yet, so he bought a new one and planned to give the other one to his mum. He also got Britt a new pair of sweats for the ride, plus some snacks she’d been missing that she wouldn’t indulge in while still pregnant.
He triple-checks that everyone is buckled in securely before pulling the car away from the curb. They head straight for London at a snail's pace, and Britt talks to him quietly about how desperate she is for a shower and to sleep in their own bed again.
He’s half-listening.
He can see their baby in the rearview mirror, their tiny chest rising and falling as they sleep.
He hadn’t prepared for that.
Britt changes the radio station.
~ ~ ~
It’s become somewhat of a tradition to spend New Year’s Eve at Charli and George’s, but somehow he thinks they’ll get a pass this year. Snow drifts outside the window, coating the ground in a soft, white blanket, and they’re in bed—the baby nestled between them—exhausted from the whirlwind of the last few days. The faint scent of baby lotion mingles with Britt’s shampoo, and the quiet hum of the wall heater fills the room.
His phone lights up on the bedside table, and he gently reaches over Britt to lift the screen.
“SOLD. Congratulations.”
The baby gurgles, and he puts the phone face down on the table, refocusing on what’s in front of him.
At midnight, fireworks explode outside, booming and crackling across the sky in a riot of colour. Mayhem lifts his head just enough to watch, ears flicking at each crackle, before resting it back on Britt’s feet—his favourite spot in the world.
He nudges Britt awake gently, pressing a hand to her side. She stirs, eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep. She checks the baby first, soft coos filling the air, before her gaze lands on him.
“Fireworks,” he whispers, tilting his head toward the window. She glances briefly at the sky, eyelids half-shut, then rests her head back on the pillow, the soft rise and fall of her chest calming him.
“Happy New Year, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to hers, tasting the faint trace of peppermint from her tea. He lingers for a moment longer before brushing a kiss across her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin under his fingertips as she drifts back to sleep.