Ella’s POV
The first ti he kissed , I froze.
Not because I didn’t want it—God, that was the confusing part. I froze because I did want it. Because I wasn’t supposed to. Because we were still technically broken, just trying to be civil for the sake of the tiny life growing inside .
But when his lips touched mine, soft and cautious, sothing in cracked.
Sothing I’d sealed up a long ti ago.
And I kissed him back.
Now he does it all the ti.
Quick little kisses when I least expect them.
On the forehead while I’m brushing my teeth.
On the lips when I’m carrying a plate to the sink.
In bed, when he thinks I’m half-asleep and won’t rember.
I always pretend to be surprised.
Maybe I am, a little.
Not by the kiss itself, but by how much I’ve co to crave them.
But we never talk about it. Not once. Not even after the first one.
And maybe that’s the safest way. Because if we do talk about it, one of us might say sothing that makes it stop. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
It’s strange. He touches with this gentle, almost reverent kind of care. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
And it’s working.
The walls I built around my heart are softening.
Sotis I catch him looking at like I’m the most beautiful thing in the world—and I want to believe it, but then I glance at my swollen belly and my stretch marks and the way I can barely see my feet anymore, and I feel ridiculous.
Huge.
Bloated.
Like a balloon just waiting to pop.
And when I start crying over it (because hormones are hell), he never rolls his eyes or tells I’m being dramatic. He just hands chocolate and my favorite biscuits and lets sob into a pillow like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
He never says the sweet things I think I want to hear.
But sohow, I know he’s thinking them.
And that’s enough.
I don’t know where we stand. I don’t know if this is a beginning or just a very pretty intermission before the end. But I know one thing:
Every ti he kisses , it feels less like a mistake...
And more like a mory we’re trying to rewrite.
Maybe we’re not who we used to be.
But maybe—just maybe—we’re becoming sothing better.
I don’t know what’s happening to lately.
No, scratch that—I do. It’s the hormones. The cravings.
And not for food.
I used to roll my eyes at won who said pregnancy made them horny. I figured they were exaggerating, or maybe just lucky enough not to be puking their guts out all day. But now? I get it. I feel it. I’m living it.
And poor Jason... he has no idea.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s pretending not to notice the way I squirm a little when he kisses goodnight. The way my eyes follow him when he changes his shirt. The way I suddenly can’t get enough of his scent—clean soap, warm skin, a hint of whatever cologne he used to wear back when we were in campus.
The kisses haven’t helped.
In fact, they’ve made it worse.
They used to feel like tests. Little silent check-ins—are we okay now? Can I co closer? But now they feel like fuel to a fire I don’t know how to put out.
He kisses and walks away like he didn’t just set off a full-body reaction inside . Like he didn’t just leave clinging to the edge of sanity, pulse racing, thighs clenched.
And I let him.
Because neither of us has said a word about it.
Because I’m scared that if I ask for more, he’ll stop altogether.
But last night... last night I almost broke.
He kissed in the kitchen, right after handing the last biscuit. A soft, sweet kiss that lingered just a little too long. His hand brushed my belly first—like he always does now—and then settled on my hip. Gentle. Familiar.
I leaned into it. Leaned into him.
And when he pulled back, I didn’t let him go.
He looked at , confused at first. Then cautious. Like he wasn’t sure if I ant it or if this was one of those hormone-driven emotional whirlwinds he was learning to survive.
But I ant it. God help , I ant it.
I wanted his hands on . I wanted to rember what it felt like to want and be wanted. I wanted to reclaim the parts of that didn’t belong to the baby—or to the past we were still trying to fix.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t have to.
Because my body was already speaking for .
And the way he looked at —wide-eyed, tense, and just a little bit wrecked—I knew he heard it loud and clear.
We didn’t do anything. Not that night.
But we both walked away a little more breathless than before.
If this keeps up...
I don’t think we’ll be walking away next ti.
Jason’s POV
She was watching again.
Not just watching—looking at like I was sothing to eat.
And God, I wanted to be devoured.
It started small. A brush of her fingers against mine when I handed her the remote. The way she sat a little closer on the couch, curled up but restless, like her own skin wasn’t fitting right. And those eyes—dark, wide, hungry in a way I hadn’t seen in a long ti.
"Is it hot in here?" she mumbled, fanning herself.
It wasn’t. But I said nothing. Just nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
She stood up, slow and heavy with the weight of our baby, her belly round and beautiful in the loose shirt she wore. One of mine. Her thighs peeked out beneath it, bare and soft and full.
I was done for.
"I can’t sleep," she said. "Too much on my mind."
"Want to talk about it?" I asked, because I had to at least pretend I wasn’t staring at her like I’d forgotten how to breathe.
She didn’t answer. Just crossed the room, stopped right in front of , and looked down.
"You’re not going to kiss ?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I blinked. "I wasn’t sure if you—"
"Jason," she interrupted, her hands sliding onto my shoulders, "just shut up and kiss ."
So I did.
There was nothing soft about it this ti. No hesitant brushing of lips. No slow re-entry. This wasn’t forgiveness—this was need.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging, guiding closer. I pulled her into my lap, careful, so fucking careful with her belly between us, but she didn’t seem to care. She just moaned into my mouth and shifted until she found the pressure she wanted.
And when she moved—grinding, needy, gasping—I lost my mind.
She was so warm, so ready, so damn sure of what she wanted. And what she wanted was . Her husband. The man who had almost lost her.
"Tell to stop," I rasped, forehead pressed to hers, shaking from how hard I was holding back.
"I’m not going to," she whispered.
And that was it.
I carried her to bed with her legs wrapped around my waist, her lips at my throat. Every second was fire. Every breath was soaked in all the longing I had buried for months. I kissed every inch of her like I was trying to rember it—because I was. I worshipped her like the miracle she was.
And when I finally made love to her, it wasn’t careful anymore.
It was desperate. Reverent. A reunion and a reckoning.
She cried after. Not because she was sad. Just overwheld. Full.
"I craved this," she said.
"I’m yours," I told her, kissing the tears from her cheeks.
But deep down, I knew...
We’d just found our way back.
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