Ilya rolls his eyes at the normal-sized thing, lets out a little grunt of sorts, accompanied by a half-shrug; Normal-sized, not normal-sized, big, small, minuscule... doesn't matter. The tub is empty in one way or another and Ilya cannot have it as a snack again because of that, which is a problem.
However, said problem isn't really acknowledged as the love of his life continues to massage his legs - slaps his feet, to which Ilya rolls his eyes yet again but decides to be good, allows for his Alpha to knead at all of those sore knots that have formed within his muscles. It feels good, actually - it feels incredible, to be honest - and here the Omega is, melting further into the cusions in return, eyes turning a bit heavy-lidded as a gentle purr begins to escape his lungs...
A noise of utter content, happy, cared-for. A subconscious response to the attention he receives, primal in nature, carved into his bones because of his gender.
---But when Shane speaks up after a while - after reminding Ilya that, yes, he hates decaf anyways, fuck - it sounds so thoughtful and hesitant almost, that Ilya's undivided attention returns within a second and a half; He blinks his eyes back open as wide as before, awake and alert, as he lifts his head a bit to take a better look at his mate - accompanied by two lifted brows, curiosity and surprise both being written over his features...
"---Do I regret it?", he asks and sounds as deadpan as he can possibly be, like Shane's just told him the most ridiculous news of the century. "...Do I regret it because of weird as fuck cravings in combination with me puking my guts out every morning?"
A rhetorical question, much like the first one - and, again, Ilya keeps looking at the love of his life as if his Alpha had just decided to turn himself into a Beta, as if Shane had just decided that Hockey actually sucks, as if the man kneading his legs so lovingly has just declared that he's not Canadian but Portugese instead.
"Hollander." A pregnant (hah) pause, a blink, a knit of those brows once the initial surprise has fallen off of his face. "---I literally begged you to knock me up. Sure, was in heat, but I still had functinal brain... partially." A hum, a tilt of his head, before Ilya focuses back on Shane - reaches an arm out to grab one of those wrists that's now close enough because Shane's massaging the backside of his knees, curls his fingers around it, holds on tenderly.
Looking at his husband as he does, pointedly so.
"No, Shane - I do not regret little Shaneberry." Once more, a pause, before he continues. "Is it annoying me sometimes? Yes. Have I puked more in the last two weeks than I have in my entire life combined? ---Almost. But would do it all over again, because this---" His free hand gives his belly a light pat for emphasis. "---Is our child. We made it. Symbol of love."
...A sniff, that typical one Ilya always does when he gets a bit emotional (or insecure, or thoughtful) before his gaze flicks to the side and he sinks back against the couch... clears his throat, licks his bottom lip.
"...I have always wanted kids.", he admits then, quietly so. "Always... imagined what it would be like. To have laughing little thing running around and call me Papa."
