## the bubble universe - leah x reader !!
guyyyys! i am feeeeding you all of the fluffy goodness of the bubble universe!! and i am absolutely loving writing this so bloody much! how have you all been!? lmk how you’re all feeling about my new stuff and the BU! i hope you all love this one as much as i do! love always - RGx
find THE BUBBLE UNIVERSE — here
early pregnancy - the first trimester, hints about fears of miscarriage, anxiety language, fluffy loved up ness, leah being the best partner ever, morning sickness and ultrasounds, angst if you squint haaard, some technical language about scans and pregnancy tracking. not proof read because again, fuck that.
“we’re fully booked this week,” the receptionist on the other end of the line says gently. “but we can fit you in next tuesday. we’ll want to run a few blood tests first before we look at scans.”
you hang up with shaking hands and a strange tightness in your chest. it’s not panic exactly, just that familiar, coiled kind of hope. the kind that still knows how to brace. leah’s still brushing her teeth when you find her, sleep-creased and messy-haired. you lean against the bathroom doorway and wait until she sees your face in the mirror.
“they can’t see us for a week,” you say softly.
she spits toothpaste into the sink, rinses, turns. “okay,” she says, and wraps her arms around your waist like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “so we wait.”
the days between the ‘official’ positive and the clinic appointment are tender in ways you didn’t expect. leah treats your body like it’s made of glass now. a good kind; expensive, delicate, museum-worthy. she reads every label on every food item in the fridge. she stops drinking caffeinated coffee, even though you tell her she doesn’t need to. every morning, she pours you both tea and says “cheers” like it’s still fun.
you try not to overthink. try not to look at the toilet paper every time you pee. try not to google every ache or twinge. but sometimes you cry for no reason, and sometimes for good reason, like the night you dropped a full tub of blueberries on the floor and just sat there in the middle of the kitchen, hands in your lap, trying not to fall apart.
when leah found you there she didn’t laugh, didn’t fuss. just crouched beside you and helped pick up every single one.
“that’s our baby’s vitamin C gone,” she whispered, joking, and kissed the tip of your nose. you laughed together, a little broken, and then cried again.
when the appointment finally arrives, it feels too big. like a checkpoint in a video game. like a door you have to knock on with both hands.
it’s raining. leah insists on driving even though you could’ve taken a cab. she says it’s about control. you don’t ask questions.
the clinic feels smaller than you remember. less sterile. more.. waiting. there are other couples in the chairs. quiet conversations. someone holding a tiny pair of socks in her lap. when they call your name, leah squeezes your hand and stands first.
they take your blood. they ask about symptoms- nausea? fatigue? any spotting? and leah answers half of them for you, like she already knows everything. the nurse smiles. she tells you the hcg levels look “very encouraging.”
“you’re probably around three, maybe three and a half weeks. it’s very early. too early to scan, we won’t see much yet, and we don’t want to cause unnecessary stress.”
“we’ll bring you back in at six weeks for a scan, we’ll maybe even be able to see baby’s heartbeat.” she says with a smile, it reads genuine, but you can’t help the nerves that stir in your ribs. “it’s important that you rest between now and then. no heavy lifting, no high-impact exercise. stay hydrated, take your prenatal vitamins daily, and try to limit stress where you can.”
then the part you were expecting, but still hate hearing:
“we recommend waiting until the twelve-week mark before telling anyone outside your very inner circle. early pregnancy is… fragile. we just want to give this the best possible chance.”
you nod again. you feel leah’s hand press against the small of your back, grounding you.
in the car afterwards, it takes you a while to speak. the rain dots the windows gently, a rhythm like static. leah rests her forehead on the steering wheel and exhales.
“three weeks,” she says finally. “jesus. that’s.. so tiny.”
you let out a breath. “i know.” she turns to you. eyes soft.
you nod. “yeah. it’s there.”
she cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “we’ve got to protect it now.”
and you know she means all of it — your body, your heart, the tiny new life waiting somewhere inside you to be believed in.
for weeks, nearing months, you don’t tell anyone. just like the doctor suggested.
not because you’re hiding it, but because it feels like a secret the universe whispered just to you. something still forming, still blooming in the dark.
it belongs to the two of you.
leah keeps a list of names in her notes app. you’re not allowed to see it. you write little letters to no one in your journal. sometimes you fall asleep with your hand on your belly, even though there’s nothing to feel yet.
you’re not showing. not at all. but leah still tugs your shirt down gently when it rides up, like she’s shielding something.
she takes a picture of your stomach in week four. kisses it after.
“in case we forget how small you started,” she whispers, not to you, to your stomach.
you know you won’t forget. you don’t think you ever could.
you start noticing the shift around the end of week four, not that you’re counting (you definitely are.). it’s nothing major, not like the movies where someone throws up into a bin dramatically and knows instantly, it’s more like your body is turning the volume up on itself, bit by bit.
food starts to smell different. leah’s aftershave, the one you usually love, makes your stomach twist if she sprays too much. you’re exhausted in a way that feels bone-deep.
“you’re growing a whole organ,” leah says one night when you apologise for dozing off halfway through a film. she doesn’t look annoyed, just kind of awed by it. “like… your body’s making a new body part. the placenta. that’s mental.”
you blink at her. “did you google that?”
she shrugs, but her ears go a little pink.
“maybe.” and she does more than google. she orders two books and downloads an app that tells her how big the baby is each week along with little facts about the growth, she reads them out loud when you’re half-asleep and screenshots bits she wants to talk about later.
she’s taking it seriously. more seriously than you expected, if you’re honest. not in a rigid or panicky way, just like she’s trying to learn the shape of this with you.
she still kisses your belly every night before bed, despite the lack of bump, lack of evidence there is even a human growing inside you. sometimes you laugh and tell her she’s being ridiculous, but you don’t mean it. not even a little. it’s becoming your favourite part of the day.
as the fifth week draws to an end, the nausea starts properly.
you don’t throw up exactly, not every day, anyway. but it’s there, constantly, like a low hum in the back of your throat. toast helps. sometimes ice water with lemon. sometimes laying down in a dark room while leah rubs your back in slow circles until your breathing evens out.
“i feel useless,” she says one night, crouched on the bathroom floor beside you. your forehead’s pressed against the cold porcelain of the bathtub, your eyes watery.
“you’re not,” you mumble. “you’re- you’re here.”
she brushes hair from your face, careful and soft. “i just hate seeing you like this.”
you reach for her hand and squeeze.“you’re doing everything right.”
she makes you soup. it’s too salty but you eat it anyway.
she buys ginger chews. you spit one out immediately.
she gets sea sickness bands, the elastic kind with the little pressure bead. they actually help. she doesn’t say i told you so.
you fall asleep in the middle of a conversation and she just pulls the blanket up over you and finishes your sentence to the empty room.
you cry at a dog food commercial and she doesn’t even blink. just grabs the tissues and climbs into bed beside you like it’s all normal now.
you haven’t told anyone yet, just as discussed.
but there’s a shift in how you exist in the world, its small, but it’s there. like you’re holding a glowing ember behind your ribs and everything feels a little warmer for it. you catch yourself with your hand on your stomach in the middle of the grocery store. leah orders decaf at brunch without even looking at the menu.
when her mum calls, leah presses her phone tight to her ear like she’s afraid something might spill out of her mouth if she relaxes too much.
“do you think they’ll be excited?” you ask one night, curled into her on the sofa.
“my mum?” leah pauses. “yeah. i think she might cry. dad definitely will,”
“what about your brother?”
she laughs softly. “he’ll probably make some rude joke and then go out and buy a full arsenal baby kit the same day.”
“it is,” she agrees, and then, after a pause: “you don’t have to tell anyone until you’re ready. not even our families. not even mine.”
“it’s not just about me, le, this is our news.” you say, looking at here through your tired yes. she doesn’t reply, but you know what she’s thinking. you both want to. soon. scared it will eat you up if you don’t.
but still you don’t, not even your parents. not until that six-week scan, not until someone confirms that this flicker inside you is really doing what it’s meant to do. but the want is there. it bubbles up in you sometimes, surprising and bright.
you want to see her mum’s face. you want to hear her brother’s jokes. you want this tiny, invisible thing to be something other people believe in, too.
you fall asleep with your head on leah’s chest and her fingers drawing slow circles against your shoulder blade. she’s humming, something low and wordless, and it makes your chest ache a little.
six weeks arrives quiet and early, folded into a tuesday morning like it’s nothing special. but it is.
you wake up before the alarm, stomach already fluttering with nerves and nausea that you try to keep at bay with deep breaths and sips of water.
leah moves around the house quietly, content, soft-footed and serious. her voice is low, even when she’s just asking if you want toast. you nod and manage a bite before giving up, the nausea still curled somewhere behind your ribs.
“you don’t have to be nervous,” she says, slipping into the space beside you on the bed, balancing the plate on her knee.
you give her a look. “yes i do.”
she pauses, takes a deep breath. “yeah. okay. me too.”
the car ride is quiet. your fingers twitch against your thighs until she reaches over and laces them with hers, like she doesn’t even have to look. the city rolls past in grey and green, the roads slick from an early rain. everything feels sharper. heavier. like the world knows what you’re carrying.
you check in, fill out a few forms with hands that shake just enough to smudge your signature. and then they call your name again, his time for the scan.
the room is dim. clinical, but not cold. leah stands beside the bed, eyes trained on the monitor before anything even begins. the nurse is kind. her name is carla. she explains every step, even the ones you already know.
before the scan starts, leah gently clears her throat and asks, “would it be okay if i film for a minute? just to get our reaction? just on my phone? so we have it. to watch later.”
carla smiles warmly. “of course. just keep it respectful, and try not to interfere with the equipment.”
you squeeze leah’s hand, grateful. your heart is pounding, nerves twisting in your stomach.
“we’re going to do a transvaginal scan today — it’s clearer this early on. nothing to worry about. you might feel a bit of pressure,” carla continues.
you nod, biting your lip.
the cold wand presses gently, and the screen flickers to life in grayscale and static and then,
“okay,” carla says softly. “let’s see what we’ve got.”
leah lifts her phone carefully and starts recording, her lens catching the flicker of light on the screen despite the dim room, but mostly it focuses on you: one hand tucked behind your head and the other holding leah’s just in the frame, the wide eyes, the breath caught in your throat, the tears that come unbidden.
it takes a second. one heartbeat. two.
and then: a tiny, flickering light in the middle of a grainy blob.
“is that?” leah whispers.
carla smiles. “that’s the heartbeat.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. it stutters a little, catches halfway in your throat, and then comes out wet. tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them. you blink hard.
leah keeps filming, voice soft, “it’s real. we’re really doing this.”
carla taps a few buttons. “baby’s measuring right on track. six weeks, one day. strong little heartbeat. 118 bpm. everything looks perfect.”
you keep watching the screen, the flicker, the pulse — the little life inside you.
leah lowers her phone and wipes a tear from your cheek, her own eyes shining.
you nod, overwhelmed. “are you okay?”
“no,” she says, laughing through a sob. “but in a good way.”
as the scan continues, carla poking and prodding around to do her checks, you find yourself asking questions quietly, “so, i know it’s early but is it possible to know the due date, roughly? and will we need more appointments soon?”
carla glances at the measurements on the screen and smiles gently. “based on today, you’re about six weeks along, so your due date would be around late november, but we always take that as an estimate at this stage.”
you nod along to her words as she taps the keyboard and pulls up some notes. “you’ll definitely need another scan around 10 to 12 weeks, that’s when we get a clearer picture and check on development. in the meantime, you’ll have regular blood tests and check-ins to monitor everything.”
she leans in, voice soft but serious. “early pregnancies from IVF can sometimes need extra monitoring, so it’s important to take care of yourself and come to all your appointments. but for now, everything looks very good.”
you nod, heart racing but comforted by her calm. leah squeezes your hand, her eyes on you.
at the end of the scan, she prints out a strip of little photos for you. a blurry, smudged, grey-and-white miracle that doesn’t look like anything but means everything.
leah carries it out of the clinic like it’s worth a million pounds. back at the car, you’re both a mess of giddy-nerves. chatting absentmindedly with eyes glued to your new prized-possession. the pair of you stare at the pictures for a while, before you prop up your phone and snap a series of pictures. you and leah on either side of the middle console, the strip of pictures held between you - smiles beaming.
“it’s real,” she says once, so quiet you almost miss it. you turn your head to look at her. she’s staring at the print like it’s magic.
“we saw it,” you whisper. she leans in and kisses you, slow and certain, which ends in a fit of giggles and tears.
then, you hit seven weeks.
it passes without much fanfare, no new appointments, no major changes, just steady and private unfolding.
you wake up to leah curled around you, her hand resting soft and flat over your stomach. it’s barely grown, actually not at all, but she touches it like she’s memorising it already. like she’s grounding herself to the fact that something’s there.
you’re still keeping everything quiet. it’s become a kind of game between you, pretending nothing’s changed when people check in, dodging questions about nights out and dinner plans and why you haven’t been seen at the pub lately.
but inside your little home, it’s all you talk about.
you find yourself looking at the fridge more often now. the scan pictures are still up, soft and fuzzy, like little grayscale ghosts. but they’re already worn at the corners from how often you handle them.
sometimes you catch leah just standing there, arms crossed, staring at them like they might shift or change if she watches closely enough.
you start writing things down. small notes in your phone about how you feel each day. about the wave of nausea that hit in the middle of brushing your teeth, the dream you had where the baby had leah’s exact smile, the smell of toast suddenly making you gag. it helps. to make it real on paper.
leah’s been reading. not obsessively, she knows how overwhelming it can get, but every now and then, you catch her scrolling quietly through articles on her phone and when you ask her what she’s found, she tells you softly, “you’re doing everything right.”
at eight weeks, the nausea peaks.
your body feels like it’s in revolt some days. food aversions come out of nowhere, one morning you cry because your favourite cereal suddenly tastes like metal. leah doesn’t flinch. she kisses your forehead and brings you toast and a banana instead.
“you okay?” she asks, brushing your hair out of your face as you sit slumped on the bathroom floor once more.
“not even a little,” you whisper, and she smiles, pulling you gently into her arms. “but we’re doing it.”
the fatigue is worse now too. afternoons blur into evenings without you realising, and sometimes you nap so deeply it’s like falling through water. but leah never makes you feel guilty. she just tucks a blanket over you and lies beside you, turning up the tv or reading aloud from whatever book she’s into, her voice steady and soft like waves against sand.
some nights, when you’re both still awake and the house is quiet, she talks to your stomach. not in a big way. not like a movie. just these soft, half-silly, half-sincere whispers; telling stories, sharing thoughts, asking questions like the baby could already hear her.
and it’s in those little moments, the in-between ones, that you realise: this is what growing looks like. slow. sacred. and full of love.
nine weeks arrives like breath on glass; close enough to see, not quite close enough to touch.
the days feel quieter now, though your body is louder than ever. nausea still clings to your mornings, sometimes your nights too.
your emotions ride in strange, wild arcs. you cry at the sound of a baby laughing on the telly, then again when the post doesn’t come on time. you feel both ridiculous and entirely valid all at once.
leah doesn’t flinch. not once. she’s gentle with you, patient in ways that make your throat ache. she’s learned the exact right way to tie your hair back when you’re slumped over the sink. how to hold your hand when you’re just done for the day. how to make you laugh when you can’t see anything but grey.
she starts calling you “mama” sometimes, under her breath, like she’s talking to the baby but too sacred to say out loud just yet.
one night, at the end of week nine, you’re lying tangled together on the sofa, the telly flickering forgotten in the background, your head on her shoulder. she’s got one hand curled over your belly and the other resting on your thigh, and you can feel the rhythm of her breathing, steady and soft beneath your cheek.
“i keep thinking about what they’ll be,” she says. “like, what if they’re wild like you, or quiet like me? what if they’re both? what if they hate football?”
you laugh, exhausted but warm. “we’ll love them anyway. probably still make them wear a little arsenal kit though.”
she kisses your forehead and murmurs, “obviously.”
by ten weeks, there’s a quiet shift.
the nausea begins to fade, just enough to function. you’re still tired all the time, but some mornings are brighter now, you wake up without that heavy weight in your chest, without the dizzy ache behind your eyes.
you both know the next appointment is getting close. the 12-week mark hovers just ahead, a checkpoint you’ve been inching toward with cautious hope. it’s all still private, still tucked into the corners of your flat, the notes app on your phone, the soft drawer beside your bed where you’ve started to collect small, hopeful things. a book about names, a pair of tiny socks leah found and couldn’t leave behind.
your body feels different now, too. not obviously, not to anyone else but you know. you feel bloated constantly, so your jeans don’t quite button right anymore. your chest is sore in a way that makes even brushing your arm against it feel like punishment. and your stomach.. it’s still mostly soft, the same shape it always was, but there’s a new kind of weight to it. like your body’s holding a secret.
leah notices, of course. she always does.
“stand still,” she says one night, pulling you gently into the light of the bedroom lamp.
you’re wearing one of her t-shirts, oversized and stretched slightly at the middle now. she runs her palms over your stomach carefully, reverently, like she’s reading braille on your skin.
you roll your eyes, but you do it. she crouches a little, squinting, then grins.
“there’s something there. tiny, but definitely something.”
“it’s probably just bloating,” you mumble, embarrassed.
she shakes her head, standing again. “nah. that’s our baby. starting to show off.”
you let her hold you like that for a while, her hands soft over your hips, your back tucked against her chest. you feel silly for how emotional it makes you — but she doesn’t tease. she never teases.
instead, she murmurs into your hair, “you’re doing such a good job.”
you spend more time in your little nest of a flat now. part of it is the exhaustion, ten weeks of growing a human has you completely undone by 3pm most days. but part of it is choice. safety. you’re still not ready to be in the outside yet, the world feels too big, too full of questions you’re not prepared to answer.
so you stay in. wrapped in soft blankets, living in oversized jumpers, binge-watching crime documentaries you’ve both seen before. leah makes a new habit of placing her hand over your stomach while you sit curled into her, like she’s trying to catch the baby doing something early.
“you think they can hear us yet?” she asks one morning, voice low and quiet.
you shake your head. “not for a few more weeks.”
“shame. i’d want them to know my voice.”
“they will,” you say, resting your hand over hers. “they’ll know it inside and out.”
you’re lying on the sofa, half-asleep on leah’s chest, the telly playing some old rerun neither of you are watching. her fingers are tracing lazy shapes over the curve of your stomach through your jumper.
"they're about the size of a strawberry now," you murmur, eyes still closed.
“all snug and round in there, floating about like a little bubble.”
you smile before you can stop yourself, the word ‘bubble’ fizzing quietly in your chest. it’s silly, but it fits. it fits the way your world’s shifted around this new centre. it fits the way you’ve started speaking in we instead of i. bubble feels like a word that holds wonder without pressure. soft edges. a bit of magic.
"bubble," you repeat, letting it settle on your tongue absentmindedly.
leah leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. “little bubble,”
after that, it sticks. bubble becomes the quiet name passed between you in sleepy morning whispers and warm belly rubs, in phone notes and food cravings. you start talking about “bubble’s room,” “bubble’s heartbeat,” “what bubble might be dreaming about.”
and somehow, bubble makes you feel less afraid. less like it’s unknown, more like excitement.
week eleven is a blur, less of a milestone.
like the baby, like bubble, is curled up somewhere deeper than before, almost unreachable.
your symptoms haven’t disappeared, but they’ve shifted. morphed into something gentler. you’re still tired all the time, still weepy over weird things; a charity advert, a kid’s drawing in the post office window, the sound of leah humming in the shower, but it feels more like… endurance now. like you’re running a long, steady race with your body instead of trying to survive it.
but it’s still hard to believe there’s a tiny person growing inside you.
“a person with a spine,” you whisper once, reading from the pregnancy app, your thumb grazing the little cartoon fruit illustration. “and fingers.”
leah’s lying beside you, arm tossed across your middle. “bubble’s got fingers?”
you nod, handing her your phone. “and toes.”
she holds it like it’s a sacred text, then presses her cheek against your bump. “well done, bubble. keep going.”
the lead-up to the 12-week scan has a strange weight to it. like you’ve been holding your breath since day fourteen, and now someone’s telling you: soon, you can exhale.
you get a call from the clinic on wednesday morning, polite, clipped tones, confirming your scan for the following week, walking you through what to expect.
“bring water,” the doctor says over the phone. “a full bladder helps us get a clearer picture.”
you hang up and relay the instructions to leah while she butters toast, explaining the details you had retained about meeting your midwife and things. she doesn’t respond right away, just quietly flips the kettle on.
“you okay?” you ask, watching her.
she nods too quickly. then pauses. then shrugs. “yeah. just, it’s a big one, isn’t it? twelve weeks.”
you move to her side, press your hand to her back. “yeah.”
“i keep thinking about what they’ll see,” she says, quieter now. “like, if bubble’s okay. if their heart’s still beating.”
you nod, stomach turning in that too-familiar way. “me too.”
she leans her forehead against yours, eyes shut. “i didn’t think i could be this scared and this happy at the same time.”
you let out a breath against her cheek. “same.”
you spend the rest of the week preparing in little ways, folding laundry, printing off your appointment letter, standing at the fridge and staring at the scan photo like it might offer you clues.
leah puts together a list in her notes app titled questions for the Scan (aka don’t forget to ask these).
you peek over her shoulder and read things like:
any signs we should watch for??
can we hear the heartbeat again??
is bubble okay in there????
will they let us keep another print?
you don’t say anything. you just kiss her shoulder and whisper, “we’re gonna be okay.”
the night before the appointment, you both lie in bed and watch old football highlights on her laptop, the volume low. her hand rests over your bump. it’s almost second nature now.
"i want bubble to love football," she says dreamily. "but not like… feel pressured to."
you smile, eyes already heavy. “they can love it. or dance. or, like, insects.”
“bubble the entomologist,” she says, half-laughing. “we’ll support it.”
“big word for you,” you laugh, no matter what the scan shows, no matter how big the world starts to feel again tomorrow. right now, in this room, bubble is safe. and so are you.
the morning of the 12-week scan begins with soft light filtering in through the bedroom window.
your alarm goes off just after half six, but you’re already awake, lying still in bed with one hand on your stomach. the duvet is warm, leah pressed up behind you, arm slung across your waist, breath slow against the back of your neck.
you stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to name the feeling swelling in your chest. it’s not quite fear, not quite excitement, just a kind of knowing. you’re about to see them again. bubble.
leah shifts as the alarm buzzes again, groaning softly before leaning up on one elbow. “today,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
you nod, turning to face her. her eyes are puffy, hair a bit wild, but she’s grinning.
“you okay?” she asks, brushing her fingers over your cheek.
you nod again, but the breath you let out is shaky. she kisses your forehead and climbs out of bed, already mumbling something about toast and tea.
an hour later, you’re in the car, appointment letter folded neatly in your lap, leah’s hand resting on your thigh as she drives. the roads are quiet, mid-morning haze making everything feel softer.
the nerves don’t really hit until you pull into the clinic parking lot and see the familiar sign. you sit in the car for a second, staring at the entrance.
“it’s gonna be okay,” leah says gently.
“we’ve made it this far.”
you nod, but you still reach for her hand when you step out of the car.
you’ve been in this room before, weeks ago, when everything still felt delicate, when the screen showed more potential than shape. but now, it’s different. the lights are dim again, the air quiet, soft beeping from machines blending with the low hum of anticipation thrumming beneath your skin.
leah’s next to you, perched on the small chair by your side, thumb tracing slow circles over the back of your hand. she hasn’t let go of you since you walked in.
emily, today’s ultrasound tech, is all calm confidence and easy smiles.
“you ready?” she asks, gel already in hand.
you nod, your shirt already tucked up beneath your chest, jeans slightly unbuttoned.
the gel is cold. you flinch and laugh at the same time. leah squeezes your hand.
emily glances at the two of you. “if all goes well today, you’ll be able to see so much more than before. baby’s usually moving around quite a bit at this stage.”
“moving?” you ask, already breathless.
“yep. they’ve got limbs now,” she grins. “might even wave if we’re lucky.”
the machine whirs. the screen flickers.
you can’t speak for a second. it’s too much. a real little person. head, arms, legs curled in just slightly, spine arched like a comma. nothing like the blur from before. they’re bigger now, somehow both tiny and huge.
you gasp softly, covering your mouth. leah shifts in her seat, leaning forward, eyes wide. “oh, wow…”
your own eyes are already wet. emily makes a few gentle adjustments, tapping keys, taking measurements. “heartbeat’s strong. looks beautiful.”
you glance at leah, and she’s staring not at the screen, but at you. watching the way you’ve gone completely still. the way your jaw trembles.
“do you want to know your estimated due date?” emily asks gently.
“going off baby’s measurements today, i’d place you right around november 25th.”
leah breathes a quiet, amazed little laugh. “a scorpio baby.”
“or sagittarius,” you murmur back, still dazed.
emily turns the screen slightly and clicks a few more buttons. “we’ll print some pictures for you, of course. and based on how everything looks, you’ll be booked in for the next big scan around 20 weeks.”
you swallow thickly. “and everything looks okay?”
“it looks really good,” emily says without hesitation. “healthy. active. right where they should be.”
you nod, lips pressed together hard, trying not to cry too much. it’s all bubbling up. relief, joy, disbelief. you don’t think you’ve ever loved something you couldn’t touch quite this much before.
leah runs her fingers along your wrist, her voice low. “sorry, can i ask you something?”
“we haven’t told anyone yet,” leah says softly. “we’ve been waiting. we just didn’t want to.. rush it. but now..” she trails off, looking at you. “do you think it’s okay to start telling people?”
emily’s expression softens. “a lot of people choose this milestone, 12 weeks, as the safe point. risks drop, baby’s developing well. of course there are no absolutes, but from what we’re seeing today? it’s looking really promising. if it feels right to you, then yes. now’s a good time.”
you feel something in your chest unclench. a long-held breath, finally exhaled. leah leans down, presses her lips to your temple.
“you hear that?” she whispers.
you nod, unable to speak.
after, you’re introduced to claire, your midwife going forward,and she feels like the kind of person you could talk to about anything.
she’s older, warm-eyed, a cardigan over her scrubs. she pulls her chair close to the desk and opens a folder with your name on the front, already scribbled with dates and initials.
“you’re both doing so well,” she says after flipping through the paperwork. “and baby looks healthy. we’ll go over diet, appointments, what to expect next. but honestly, the most important thing you can do right now is keep looking after yourself. one day at a time.”
you and leah exchange a quiet smile.
after a friendly discussion, claire jots down your next appointment, circles the 20-week mark in pen. “we’ll see you again for the anatomy scan around this time, usually between 18 and 21. maybe before that for a few check-ins.”
she hands you a packet, more leaflets than you can count, and a little slip with her personal work number. “you’ve got me now,” she says. “any time you need something. seriously.”
you tuck it all into your bag like it’s treasure.
the car feels warm from the little bit of sun, the windows slightly cracked, scan pictures clutched in leah’s hand like they’re sacred. neither of you are in a rush to drive yet, just sitting in that stillness. hearts full, the engine off, world outside blurred and quiet.
leah taps the corner of the photo strip against her thigh. “they look like a little gummy bear,” she says, grinning.
“a really cute gummy bear,” you reply, still dazed, leaning your head back against the seat. “with stumpy legs and a big head.”
“bubble the gummy bear,” she muses. “trademark pending.”
you laugh, then wipe at your eyes again, even though the tears aren’t really sad ones. just full ones. bright and aching and everything all at once.
there’s a pause. the kind that feels like breathing space. then leah says, softly, “we’re in the second trimester now, aren’t we?”
you blink at her. “are we?”
“almost,” she nods, lifting her phone and pulling up a pregnancy tracker app she’s secretly had downloaded for weeks. she tilts the screen toward you. “says here week 13 marks the start. and we’re basically there.”
“oh my god,” you breathe.
there’s a silence then, big and gentle, before leah speaks again.
“i think.. i want to tell people.”
you turn to look at her. she’s already watching you.
“you think?” you whisper.
“i do,” she says, voice catching slightly. “i know we’ve been so careful. so scared to jinx it. but bubble’s measuring perfectly, your body’s doing exactly what it needs to, and.. god, i just want everyone to know how proud i am of you. of this. of bubble.”
your eyes sting all over again. you blink fast. “you’re gonna make me cry again.”
“you’ve been crying all day.”
“you’ve been crying all day.”
“okay,” she laughs, breathless and warm. “we’ve both been crying all day.”
you both sit there for another minute, just letting it wash over you. the day, the words, the tiny gummy bear bubble inside you that has suddenly made the world feel huge and sharp and entirely new.
leah turns in her seat to face you properly, hand curling over yours on the middle console. her voice is quieter this time. steadier.
“now,” she says, smiling through it, “we have some news to tell some very important people.”
and your heart stutters in the best way possible. because you do, and you’re ready.
