I reached for the coffee pot and my hand brushed Sterling's.
He went still.
We were in the kitchen. Morning light through the window. He'd been saying something about a meeting downtown. I wasn't really listening. I was watching his hand on the counter, long fingers wrapped around his mug, and thinking about how many times over the past eighteen months I'd been careful not to touch him.
Every time he'd held a door. Every time he'd passed me something across the table. Every careful inch of space I'd maintained.
I set the coffee pot down.
Put my hand on his.
He stopped talking mid-sentence. Didn't pull away. Didn't move at all. Just looked at my hand covering his knuckles like he was afraid if he breathed wrong I'd disappear.
I counted. One. Two. Three.
His skin was warm.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
I could feel his pulse in his wrist.
Twenty.
I pulled my hand back.
Sterling exhaled slowly. Picked up his mug. Took a sip like nothing had happened.
"I should go," he said quietly. "The meeting."
"Okay."
He left his coffee half-finished on the counter.
I stood there for a long time after the door closed. Stared at my hand. It wasn't shaking.
---
That night I moved my pillow.
Not far. Just from my side of the bed to the floor by my door. I sat next to it with my back against the wall and my knees pulled up and tried to decide if I was ready.
Dr. Voss had said it would feel like this. Like standing at the edge of something high. Like the only way forward was to jump and trust you wouldn't break.
I thought about Sterling's face that morning. The way he'd gone so carefully still.
I stood up. Walked down the hall. Stopped outside his door.
Knocked once.
Footsteps. The door opened.
He was in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Hair damp from the shower. He looked at me and his expression did something I couldn't name.
"Everly."
I didn't say anything. Just stood there.
"Do you need—"
"Can I come in?"
He stepped back immediately. Held the door wide.
I walked past him into his room. It was smaller than mine. Neat. The bed was made. A book on the nightstand. The framed photo I'd never gotten close enough to see.
I turned around.
He was still by the door. Hands at his sides. Waiting.
"I don't know how to do this," I said.
His voice was very quiet. "We don't have to do anything."
"I want to."
He nodded slowly. "All right."
"But I need—" I stopped. Started again. "I need to be the one who decides."
"Yes."
"Every part of it."
"Yes."
I took a step toward him. Then another. He didn't move.
I reached up and touched his face. His jaw was rough under my palm. He closed his eyes.
"Tell me if I do something wrong," he said.
"You won't."
I kissed him.
He let me. Didn't pull me closer. Didn't deepen it. Just stood there and let me decide how much and how long and when to stop.
I pulled back. His eyes opened.
"Okay," I whispered.
He waited.
I took his hand. Led him to the bed. Sat down on the edge.
He sat beside me. Not touching. A foot of space between us.
I turned to face him. "I'm afraid I'll panic."
"Then we stop."
"What if I can't finish?"
"Then we stop."
I looked at my hands. "What if I can't do this at all?"
"Everly." He waited until I looked up. "There is no version of this where you disappoint me."
My throat tightened.
I kissed him again. Longer this time. His hand came up to my waist and stopped. Hovered.
"You can touch me," I said against his mouth.
His fingers settled gently on my hip. Barely any pressure.
I lay back. He followed, careful, slow. Every move a question I answered with my body.
When my breath hitched, he stopped.
"Keep going," I said.
When I turned my face away, he waited until I turned back.
When I said his name, he answered.
Afterward, I lay with my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
His hand moved to my hair. Stopped. "Can I—"
"Yes."
His fingers combed through gently. I closed my eyes.
"Sterling?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
His hand stilled for a moment. Then continued its slow path through my hair.
"Stay," he said. Not a question. A hope.
I stayed.
---
The clinic smelled like antiseptic and fake lemon.
I sat on the exam table with paper crinkling under me and stared at Dr. Patel's kind, careful face.
"You're about six weeks along," she said. "Everything looks good. Healthy."
I nodded. Couldn't speak.
She printed out a long receipt of information. Vitamins. Appointments. Warning signs. Her voice was warm and steady and I didn't hear most of it.
I took the papers. Walked to my car. Sat in the parking lot.
Six weeks.
I put my hand on my stomach. Nothing showed yet. Nothing felt different.
But it was there.
I started the car. Turned it off. Started it again.
Drove home in silence.
Sterling was in his study. I could hear him on a call. I went to my room and closed the door.
Pulled out my laptop. Opened a dozen tabs. Read about first trimesters and prenatal vitamins and what to expect.
Closed them all.
Opened a new window. Searched baby clothes.
Found a onesie. Pale yellow. Small enough to fit in my palm. Tiny ducks embroidered on the front.
I ordered it. Two-day shipping.
Then I opened a blank document and started typing.
*Sterling,*
I'm pregnant.
Deleted it.
*Sterling,*
I have something to tell you.
Deleted it.
*Sterling,*
Remember that night three weeks ago? Well.
I closed the laptop.
The onesie arrived on a Tuesday. I hid it in my desk drawer under a stack of research notes.
Took it out that night. Held it up to the light. It was so small.
I folded it carefully. Put it back.
Wednesday I drafted another version. Deleted it.
Thursday I practiced in the mirror. "Sterling, I'm pregnant." Too blunt. "Sterling, we're going to have a baby." Too cheerful. "Sterling, I need to tell you something." Too ominous.
Friday I made his favorite dinner. Set the table. Lit candles.
He came home late. Apologetic. Kissed my forehead. "This looks amazing. Give me five minutes to change."
I watched him walk down the hall.
Sat down at the table.
Stared at the candles.
When he came back, I smiled. "How was your day?"
We ate. Talked about nothing. He told me about a deal closing. I told him about a paper I was reading.
The words sat in my throat the whole time.
After dinner, he pulled me onto the couch. I curled against him and felt his hand settle on my hip.
"Everly?"
"Mm?"
"You seem happy lately."
I looked up at him. "I am."
He smiled. Actually smiled. Rare and real.
"Good," he said softly.
I almost told him then.
Almost.
Instead I kissed him and let him carry me to bed.
Monday, I promised myself. Monday I'll tell him.
I fell asleep with his arm around me and my hand on my stomach and something that felt dangerously close to hope.
