The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine Chapter 202: Melted Heart

Novel: The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine Author: lucymumbua Updated: Jun 09, 2026

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Now reading: Chapter 202: Melted Heart from The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine, a Romance novel by lucymumbua.

Ella’s POV

I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones or what, but my heart has started to soften toward Jason.

It’s stupid. I know it is. We made a truce—nothing more. A silent agreent to cohabitate in the sa space without destroying each other, because that little life growing inside deserves peace. Deserves better than what we were.

But he keeps doing things he shouldn’t. Kind things. Gentle things. The kind of things I didn’t think he rembered how to do.

Like making tea without asking. Like rubbing my back when I’m too sore to stretch properly. Like holding my hand during appointnts, even though I don’t ask him to. Especially then. Especially when I’m pretending I don’t need him there.

And worse—worse—is the way he looks at now. Like I’m sothing worth holding again. Like I’m not the woman who nearly walked away from him. Like I’m not the woman he pushed so far away I had no choice but to harden.

God, I hate it.

Because sotis, when he gets too close—when he brushes my hair off my neck or kisses my shoulder without asking—my body leans in. Traitorously. Hungrily. Like it rembers things my heart is still trying to forget.

And it’s not just physical.

That might be easier to bla.

But it’s the way he listens to now. The way he doesn’t flinch when I cry over things that shouldn’t matter. The way he holds space for all the chaos I’ve beco.

When I snap, he breathes deep. When I spiral, he steadies . When I shut down, he waits.

It’s not fair.

He used to be the storm. And now he’s becoming the shelter.

What am I supposed to do with that?

With him.

With us.

Because sowhere between my 2 a.m. chocolate cravings and our quiet morning coffees, sothing shifted. Not all at once. Not in so dramatic movie-scene mont. But slowly. Gently. The kind of shift you don’t notice until you’re already on the other side of it.

And now I’m here. On this side. In this space between what we were and what we might be again.

I see it in the way he watches when I talk, like every word I say matters. I feel it in the warmth of his hands when they find mine without asking. I hear it in the way he says my na—Ella—like it still ans sothing sacred to him.

Last night, I woke up to find him curled around , one hand resting protectively on my bump. He was asleep, breathing deep and even, but there was a tenderness in the way he held , even unconscious. Like he was guarding sothing precious. Like I was precious.

I should’ve pulled away.

I didn’t.

Instead, I sank deeper into him, let his warmth wrap around like a secret I wasn’t ready to admit yet.

And then today... he did it again.

We were in the kitchen, bickering over sothing stupid. I wanted orange juice. He said we were out. I insisted there had to be another bottle. He insisted I check the fridge myself.

It wasn’t even a real argunt, just one of those silly, dostic spats couples have when they’re too tired to be reasonable.

But then he walked over and handed the last glass he’d poured for himself.

Didn’t even hesitate.

And the worst part?

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a show of it. Just pressed the glass into my hand and kissed my forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It knocked the breath out of .

Because that is what’s ruining .

Not the big gestures. Not the grand apologies or promises.

The quiet. The ease. The way he’s showing that he love without saying it out loud.

And maybe that’s what’s breaking my rules more than anything else.

Because sowhere deep inside, I want to love him back.

I think I already do.

I tried to talk myself out of it—told myself it was just the hormones. That I was lonely, vulnerable, pregnant, and grasping at sothing familiar in a storm of uncertainty.

But then he ca ho with a new pillow.

Just one.

I asked him what it was for, and he shrugged like it didn’t matter. "Thought it might help your back," he said casually, setting it on my side of the bed like it wasn’t the sweetest damn thing anyone’s ever done.

And then, just last week, I had one of those days—the kind that leaves you wrung out, hollowed, and on the verge of tears for no good reason. I walked through the door, ready to collapse into the couch and cry over spilled nothing.

But the second I stepped inside, he looked up from the stove—he was cooking, again—and asked, "Do you want to talk or do you want food and silence?"

I blinked. "Food and silence."

He nodded, turned back to the pan, and didn’t say another word for the rest of the evening.

That’s the thing.

He gets now.

He used to fight on everything. Used to push until I broke. But now?

Now he listens. He waits. He offers softness instead of pressure.

And it’s undoing .

This morning, we were sitting on the porch. I had my feet in his lap, sipping tea and watching the sun rise while he read sothing on his tablet. I don’t even rember what we talked about—maybe baby nas or doctor appointnts or what color to paint the nursery.

But I do rember this:

He looked up at , completely unprompted, and said, "I’m really glad you’re here."

That was it.

No build-up. No context.

Just those six words, said so quietly I almost didn’t hear them.

But I did.

And now they won’t leave alone.

I’m starting to look forward to seeing him. I catch myself waiting for the sound of his car in the driveway. I listen for his footsteps down the hall. I smile when he walks into a room.

I miss him when he’s not there.

I didn’t think I’d ever feel that again.

Not after everything.

Not after the fights, the late nights, the distance that felt too wide to ever close.

But here we are.

He touches differently now. It’s not urgent. Not frantic. It’s soft. Reverent. Like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he holds on too tightly.

Sotis he kisses my cheek when I’m not expecting it. Sotis he places a hand on my belly and whispers sothing to the baby like it’s their secret. Sotis he stares at like I’m a miracle and he’s trying to morize every part of .

I should be running from this. Protecting my heart.

But I’m not.

Because sohow, sowhere along the way, the man I thought I lost found his way back.

And now I’m the one falling.

Not hard. Not all at once.

But deep.

Deeper than before.

I’m falling in love with my husband.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Later that evening, I caught him watching .

I was folding tiny onesies—so I’d bought myself, others gifts from coworkers who couldn’t resist the sight of baby clothes—and he was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"What?" I asked, glancing up.

He shook his head, but the smile didn’t fade. "Nothing. You just... you look happy."

I paused, the baby shirt still in my hands.

Was I?

I hadn’t thought about it. Not really.

But now that he’d said it, I realized... I kind of was.

Tired? Absolutely.

Uncomfortable? Constantly.

But happy?

Yeah. I think I was.

I shrugged, giving him a small smile of my own. "Must be the laundry."

He chuckled, stepping closer. "Right. Because folding baby socks is your idea of a good ti."