9 Months of “Why Me?”
—Bob Floyd
✧ Synopsis: They fucked. Hard. Hormones went wild. Cravings escalated. And somehow, a tiny human happened.
✧ Warnings: Smut: oral, breeding, body worship, and absolutely sexy Bob Floyd, Big Dick Energy™ (Bob is fully owning it), Ultimate husband behavior: doting, teasing, worshipping you, Fluff overload: cuddles, kisses, and adorableness, Pregnancy hours: cravings, exhaustion, hormones, and baby brain, Attempted humor: chaotic, awkward, silly moments included, Cute chaos: messy hair, silly smiles, waddling, and general heart-melting moments
The whole ratatouille thing isn't that special. Grab any white boy's hair and you control him.
The dimly lit room cast shadows that danced across your bare skin as Bob Floyd knelt between your thighs, his face buried in your pussy. Your fingers were tangled in his sandy blond hair, gripping tightly as you arched your back, pushing yourself further onto his eager tongue.
“So pretty... Say it back, tell me you're pretty.”
Your back arched, moans spilling out as Bob found that sweet, perfect spot. Fingers tangled in his hair, you pulled him right where you wanted him, every inch of his face coated in your slick. His muffled groans pressed into you, vibrating through your sensitive core until your knees threatened to buckle.
Fights with Bob Floyd were dangerous, mostly because his apology involved snacks, cuddles, and the occasional four-hour tongue session.
“Atta girl...”
LORD TAKE M--
Your hips rolled against his face, shameless and deliberate. He tasted you everywhere-- your slick coated his cheeks, chin, and even fogged his glasses-- and you held his head in your hands like reins, guiding him exactly where you wanted. He ate you out with an intensity that made your knees shake.
The room was filled with the symphony of wet sounds and muffled praises. Bob's tongue swirling around your clit while he hummed contentedly like a man who had found heaven between his wife's legs. "So sweet..."
No one would’ve expected Bob Floyd to be like this. Not this needy, this shameless, this… talkative. His eyes were glued to you, lips and tongue busy, and yet he found words-- muffled, wet, and utterly devoted.
“Can I eat this pretty pussy forever?” he asked, voice husky and muffled against you.
You gasped at the audacity of it, but he wasn’t done. “Do you like how I worship this sweet cunt?” His moan vibrated against your folds, and it made your knees weak.
“Should I keep going until you squirt all over my face?”
And there it was-- Bob Floyd, the quiet, sweet, somehow deadly patient man you’d married, suddenly talkative in the best, filthiest way possible, leaving you shocked, moaning, and completely undone.
A loud, sharp squeal escaped you as your body jolted with a sudden orgasm. Bob’s face was drenched, glasses sliding down, and he looked up like he’d just completed the most satisfying task in the universe. “You okay, honey?” he hummed, completely smug.
His tongue traced every drop, hungrily licking you clean while your knees threatened to give out. He looked up, eyes sparkling, voice low and teasing: “I could get used to this, you know… you’re ridiculously easy to please.”
You yanked him away gently, resting his face on your thigh to give your overstimulated cunt a reprieve. Panting and shaking from your release, you grinned wickedly. “That was… cute, Bob, really,” you breathed, voice low and teasing. “But it’s barely even a warm-up. Next time, I expect effort.”
Bullshit.
He hummed softly, playful trouble in his eyes. “That so, m’love?” he murmured, crawling over you, lips exploring every inch. Your neck alone demanded ten kisses, and he happily obliged, making you arch and bite your lip with every one.
You tugged his face up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back and scoffing. “I’ve had spicier from you in my dreams.”
That sweet Bob smile twisted into something wicked. Towering above you, his shadow swallowed your body, voice husky and firm. “I will shift your womb, woman,” he murmured, like a king claiming his throne.
Lip between teeth, smirk in check. Who knew Bob Floyd could be this commanding? You did. Every night actually. You mentally sighed, rolled your eyes, and spread your legs anyway. Invitation clear, and very much appreciated.
Hips already rolling, you whispered between moans,“You keep talking like that and don't even think about pulling out.”
“That's exactly what I was aiming for, darlin'.”
“Oh~ you wanna breed me, Bob Floyd?”
“I do. If my gorgeous wife tells me I can.”
“Mm, needy husband now?”
“Only for you. I'm so lucky.”
“You gonna fill me up, Bob?”
“Every last drop if you let me.”
“I’ll let you fuck the life out of me, husband.”
“Yes ma'am.”
He didn’t even hesitate, sliding inside you with slow, deliberate precision. Every inch of him stretched and filled you, and your hips bucked instinctively, chasing the friction that already had your nerves alight. You gasped, nails digging into his back as the burn spread deliciously, unrelenting.
“Fuck…” you whispered through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing shut.
He smirked, pressing closer, letting you feel every inch of him. You whimpered, breath catching, and tried to adjust, but it only made it sharper.
Finally, all you could manage with a strained voice rough with both pain and pleasure, the words slipping out between sharp breaths, “Fuck you, Bob Floyd...”
---
“FUCK YOU, BOB FLOY-- AHHH! LET GO, WOMAN!” Hangman’s knuckles were white, teeth clenched as he hissed through gritted teeth.
Your hand was wrapped around his wrist like a vice, eyes blazing, veins screaming, and you pushed. Hard. Hangman had promised to “fill in for Bob” and now he understood exactly how naïve that statement was.
“Breathe! Just-- breathe!” he gasped, face turning red, eyes watering, and somehow still trying to keep his hand from being crushed into pulp.
You did not breathe. You cursed. The world, Bob, your parents, the human race, the concept of pain itself-- all of it.
“I WILL FUCKING KILL EVERYONE WHO THINKS THIS IS FAIR-- AHHH!” Your voice cracked, and Hangman’s wrist gave a sickening pop. He screamed like a man summoning every regret in his lineage. “FUCK YOU, ROBERT FLOYD! I HOPE YOUR SOUL GETS STUCK IN A TRAFFIC JAM FOREVER!”
“Oh god oh god oh god,” Hangman squealed as your grip tightened further.
"SHUT UP JAK--"
"MY HAND--"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU SAY THAT AGAIN IMMA RIP YOUR TONGUE OUTTA YOUR HEAD--"
"MY HANDDDD--"
His fingers were bending in ways nature never intended. He tried to push your hand off, failed, and felt an immediate, punishing crunch against his bones. Somewhere in there, he realized you had actually broken his hand.
You didn’t pause. You cursed the pain, you cursed the room, you cursed your own fucking uterus. “I HATE YOU, ROBERT FLOYD! I HATE YOU! I HATE-- AHHH-- EVERYONE!”
The midwives were trying not to die laughing while also coaching you, the alarms were blaring, the monitors were going wild, and Hangman was gripping the gurney for dear life, muttering under his breath, “Why-- why did I think this would be fun… why am I alive…”
You whimpered to Hangman, face pale and eyes red. "I'm gonna die, Jake..."
Hangman hissed back. "You try dying and watch me pull you back by your hair 'cause ain't no way you broke my hand for nothin'."
Then, with one final, monumental heave that could have powered a small city, a tiny, wailing human erupted into the world. You collapsed back, heaving, drenched in sweat, lungs burning, every fiber of your body screaming in betrayal-- and finally, just for a second, your eyes landed on the baby. Tiny, perfect, screaming… and completely oblivious to the chaos that had just birthed it.
And that’s when the doors flew open. Bob barreled in like a storm, chest heaving, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, eyes darting wildly. He skidded to your side, but his gaze didn’t land on the baby. No, it landed entirely, completely, utterly on you.
Your exhausted eyes met his, and all you could muster, rasping through the exhaustion and the pain and the fire of childbirth, was:
“Fuck… you… Robert Floyd.”
And then, blissful, merciful, chaotic sleep took you, leaving Hangman blinking at his mangled hand and the midwives snickering behind their masks, while Bob just hovered, chest heaving, looking like he might cry, faint, or start cursing himself for being late-- all at once.
---
Babies were supposed to be tiny miracles, little bundles of joy that made life sweeter, softer, and somehow brighter. Everyone said that, and everyone lied-- or maybe they just forgot the part about the in-between.
The in-between was where the magic tangled itself with chaos. Where the tiny heartbeat inside her made Bob grin like an idiot one minute and panic the next. Where his normally sweet, gentle wife turned into a storm god with a flair for dramatic sighs, random tears, and very specific midnight cravings.
It was supposed to be cute and tender, and sometimes it was. But mostly? It was weird. It was messy. It was adorable, infuriating, and completely impossible to ignore. And Bob? He was learning fast that loving a pregnant wife meant preparing for anything: sudden laughter, sudden rage, and the occasional, inexplicable need for three pickles stacked on top of a donut.
Pregnancy was a joy, yes. But the in-between… the in-between was pure, chaotic life.
First indication was… something that shouldn’t have happened.
I married the sweetest person alive, which is why it’s absolutely terrifying to see you sitting on the bathroom floor with a faucet in pieces.
-Bob Floyd
Bob had always considered himself a lucky man. Lucky enough to fly, lucky enough to live, lucky enough to somehow marry a woman as sweet as honey. Sweet enough to rival his own gentle, soft-spoken manners.
Which is why the scene in front of him felt like walking in on a felony he had not, in any universe, prepared for.
You sat on the bathroom floor like a guilty dog and an exhausted tenant at the same time. Knees up. Hands clasped. Eyes somewhere between “I’m fine” and “bury me.” And behind you… the sink. The brutally defeated sink. Its faucet lay on its side like it had tapped out of this mortal plane. A bucket caught the remaining drips, each drop loud enough to sound like judgment.
Bob leaned on the doorframe and blinked like he was rebooting his brain.
“…My love.”
You groaned into your palms. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Bob nodded very slowly. “Uh-huh.”
“It kept dripping,” you said, eyes flashing with the kind of rage poets wish they could bottle. “Every three seconds. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like it was mocking me. Like it was taunting me, Bob.”
He tried very hard not to smile. “So you… destroyed it?”
“I didn’t destroy it.” You pointed at the faucet with wounded dignity. “I liberated it. There's a big difference.”
“Right.” He stepped in and crouched beside you. “And how exactly did liberation happen?”
You sighed through your soul. “I tried to tighten it. Nicely. With kindness.”
“And?”
“It kept dripping.”
Bob inhaled like he already knew he didn’t want the next answer. “And then?”
“…I ripped it off.”
“With tools?”
You shook your head.
“With your hands?”
You whispered, “…maybe.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. You stared at him like daring him to continue was an act of mutiny.
“I’m not laughing at you,” he tried.
“You’re literally smiling, Robert.”
“Smiling isn’t laughing.”
“It’s betrayal.”
He sat next to you, shoulder bumping yours. “Baby, you can bench-press half the squad if you’re irritated enough. I’m honestly surprised the sink lasted this long.”
Your bottom lip betrayed you with a wobble. “I didn’t mean to break it. I was just… tired. And annoyed. And it wouldn’t stop. And I just--” Your voice cracked. “I snapped.”
Bob’s entire heart folded up like origami.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. People lose fights with plumbing all the time.”
“No one does that.”
“Sure they do,” he lied, rubbing your back. “How do you think plumbers make money?”
You sniffed. “I’m hazardous.”
“You’re adorable.”
“I’m a loser.”
“You’re my wife.”
“I broke a sink.”
“My wife broke a sink with her bare hands,” he corrected softly. “Honestly? That’s kind of impressive.”
You pulled back, red-eyed and dramatic. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” Bob smiled, warm enough to soften concrete. “Honey, I married a woman who terrifies Marines twice her size. A sink didn’t stand a chance.”
A tired laugh escaped you. You wiped your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to go full Hulk.”
“I know.” He kissed your forehead. “We’ll fix it.”
“We?”
“I’m never letting you near a wrench unsupervised again.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Fair.”
He helped you up, brushing off your knees. “Next time something drips, you call me.”
“And if you’re not home?”
“Then you sit there and stare at it until I get back.”
You groaned dramatically. “That’s torture.”
“Better than replacing the entire plumbing system.”
You bumped his shoulder as you walked out. “One time. I break one sink and suddenly I’m on a watchlist.”
Bob smiled and wrapped his arm around your waist.
“One time. And you did it adorably.”
---
Second was… another thing that made him pause.
Bob liked to tell people his wife loved him in a way that made him feel embarrassingly lucky. You hugged him like he mattered, listened like he was interesting, and smiled at him like you’d been waiting all day just to see his face.
Which is why the look you were giving him now made his stomach drop straight through the floor.
He’d barely stepped through the door when you stiffened, nose scrunching like something had slapped you in the face.
You had jerked back so fast he thought he’d startled you.
“Bob,” you whispered, eyes wide, “you smell… sharp.”
“…Sharp?” he repeated, half-baffled, half-worried.
You nodded, bracing a hand on the counter like you needed grounding. “Like… bright. Too bright. It’s cutting the back of my nose.”
“It’s just residual jet fuel,” he murmured, trying to keep things light. “You’ve hugged me after flights before.” then mumbled with a small pout, “...even said it smelled hot.”
“Not like this,” you breathed, shaking your head as if the very scent stung. “It’s everywhere. It feels like it’s… crawling.”
Bob felt something cold pinch the inside of his chest. You looked pale, off-balance, like your senses had turned against you.
“Hey,” he said softly, touching your arm with careful distance. “I’ll shower. Sit down, okay?”
You nodded, grateful and exhausted.
He cleaned up faster than he ever had in his life, scrubbing until he smelled like absolutely nothing. When he stepped out, wrapped in clean clothes and hope, he felt prepared.
Until he walked back into the living room and found you crouched by the door.
Sniffing his shoes.
“Sweetheart?” he asked, voice gentle as a hand on glass. “What’re you doing?”
You startled, cheeks heating up. “I just… wanted to see if it was the smell. Or me.”
“…By smelling my shoes?”
You nodded, looking embarrassingly earnest.
His confusion didn’t last. You looked tired. And overwhelmed. And a little scared of yourself.
He walked over slowly. “Does everything smell like that right now?”
“Not everything,” you muttered, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Just… you. And food. And soap. And coffee this morning? I almost gagged. I thought I was losing it.”
Bob’s heart twisted. He brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Let’s skip cooking. What sounds okay to you?”
You hesitated, guilt flickering in your eyes. “Nothing… normal.”
“Normal’s overrated,” he said. Quiet, certain.
You came back with tortillas, yogurt, and pickles.
He said nothing. Just watched the way your shoulders relaxed the second you tasted it, like your body finally eased up on its own war.
Bob sat beside you, steady and patient, his hand resting warm on your thigh.
“You’re not in trouble,” he said when he saw embarrassment flicker across your face. “You’re allowed to feel however you feel.”
You let out a weak laugh. “Even when I act like you’re a walking chemical spill?”
He shook his head, smiling softly. “Especially then.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, your breathing slow and cautious but finally not strained.
Bob kissed the crown of your head.
Whatever was happening to you, he’d walk through it with you. Every odd craving. Every strange reaction. Every exhausted moment.
Even if you sniffed his shoes again tomorrow.
---
Third was… well, by then he knew something was up.
Never in his life had Bob done anything to deserve a tissue box thrown at him.
Yet here he was, ducking with a grace he didn’t know he possessed, as the plush rectangle sailed past his ear and smacked against the wall with a muffled thunk.
He barely had time to recover before the follow-up came: a sharp, precise kick aimed at his hip.
“Out!” the voice rang, soft but impossibly firm.
Bob stumbled back, rubbing his neck, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “…Out?” he echoed, as if the concept itself was alien.
His wife-- gentle, sweet, usually the softest presence in the room-- was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression stormy but somehow still somehow luminous, like a thundercloud made of honey.
He blinked. “…For…?”
“You said I was fat,” you accused, voice trembling somewhere between mock outrage and actual indignation.
Bob’s jaw slackened. “…I-- no. I didn’t--”
“Liar!” you exclaimed, waving a finger like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of chaos. “You totally implied it! Your words are weapons, you know that?!”
He held up his hands slowly. “I… Bob Floyd, married to you, lover of chaos, appreciator of all things gentle… swear on everything I hold dear, I did not mean that.”
“Yeah? Well, intentions don’t matter!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was a trespasser in his own bedroom.
Bob froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “No. That… that’s not what-- what I meant at all! I meant… light! Light, brightness, warmth! You fill a room like sunlight! Light of my life--”
“Light? Fill??” you echoed, voice trembling with a mix of laughter and faux outrage. “Oh, sure, Bob. You love me so much you just happen to describe me as… expanding? Overflowing?”
“I-- no! Not overflowing! Not full in that way! I’m trying to say… you make everything better. You’re amazing! I--”
“Out!”
Bob backed away slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, confusion thick in his chest. “Okay. Out…” He shuffled toward the hall, shoulders hunched, dog tilting its head like it was witnessing some strange new ritual.
This week… this week had been weird. Unusually weird. Not just the kicked-out-of-your-bedroom weird, but the kind of weird that prickled at his gut.
And he knew it.
---
Bob stands in the hallway with the same expression he uses when the coffee machine breaks: calm, resigned, and fully aware this is how he dies.
Phoenix is planted in front of him like a stone statue someone accidentally gave sentience to. Completely blank face. Not a flicker. In her hand, held out like a cursed artifact, is a pregnancy test. It’s one of those aggressively pink ones with a giant cartoon smiley face on the screen, like the plastic is more excited about this than either of them.
They stare. They stare longer. Bob feels his soul leave his body, come back, and then leave again.
He drags in a breath. “Do you want me to die?”
Her deadpan somehow gets even flatter, which he didn’t think was medically possible. She thrusts the test closer, as if he hadn’t already burned the sight of it into his retinas.
“So that’s a yes,” he mutters.
Her brows finally twitch, the slightest offended micro-flinch. “Why would you die?”
He winces.
“Because no matter how I open my mouth right now, it’s gonna sound like I implied she gained weight, I don’t want to get folded like laundry in my own home.”
"Why are you panicking?"
“Because my wife is gorgeous and powerful and capable of lifting me like a foldable chair, and I don’t want to provoke that power.”
Phoenix just keeps staring. Still offering the smiley-faced doom stick.
"Nat, I am serious. she’ll say ‘what did you mean by that,’ and I’ll die before I figure out an answer.”
“This is a normal conversation. You’re the only one having a meltdown.” she smirks, clearly enjoying.
Bob tries to look calm. Truly. He does his best impression of a functional adult as he takes the pregnancy test from Phoenix, nodding like this is a grocery receipt and not a potential life-altering prophecy.
He holds it delicately, like it’s a bird egg or a live grenade.
“Cool,” he says, voice cracking in a way he hopes she didn’t hear. “So… uh… we just wait, right? No big deal.”
Phoenix stares at him. The human embodiment of a flatline.
Bob inhales. Slow. Dramatic. “Because if it’s positive then… that’s… that’s a whole human. A human that’s half me.” His eyes go wide. “Phoenix, that’s a crime.”
She blinks once. “Calm down.”
“I am calm,” he says, absolutely not calm. His hands are shaking like he’s holding a squirrel that might bite. “I’m so calm I might throw up.”
Phoenix watches him come undone with the emotional support of a brick wall. “You’re sweating.”
“Because this is terrifying!” He gestures wildly with the test, immediately realizing he might disturb its cosmic forces and freezing in place. “Sorry. Sorry. Don’t move the magic stick. Got it.”
He sucks in a breath like he’s trying to inflate his own courage.
“If this is positive, then-- then there’s a baby. A baby, Phoenix. A baby with my genes. Do you know how irresponsible that sounds?”
Phoenix’s expression doesn’t change at all. “You’ll be fine.”
“No, no, those are the words people say right before someone passes out.” He presses a hand to his chest. “My heart is doing parkour.”
“Breathe,” she says.
“I am breathing! That’s the problem, I can hear it.”
Phoenix finally, mercifully, reaches out and steadies his wrist so he doesn’t fling the test across the room. “Bob. It’s just a test. Two minutes.”
He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again, looking like he’s rebooting.
“Two minutes. Okay. Yeah. I can do two minutes. I can be a parent for two minutes.”
She corrects him. “That’s not what I said.”
“I know,” he says, already pacing in a tight anxious circle, clutching the test like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. “I’m spiraling. Just let me spiral with dignity.”
“You don’t have dignity.”
He stops. Squints at her. “That’s fair.”
---
Bob sits on the couch like someone propped him upright with broomsticks. Perfect posture. Eyes forward. Breathing shallow, like inhaling too hard might set you off.
In front of you both, the coffee table looks like a crime scene built out of snack food. Ice cream tubs sweating. Half-melted sundaes. Donuts. Chips. Something from Wendy’s that definitely wasn’t on the menu. It looks like Bob raided five stores, a gas station, and possibly a truck.
And right in the middle of it all, like Moses parting the edible Red Sea, sits that tiny pink pregnancy test.
Just existing. Haunting him. Mocking him.
The silence is suffocating. Well-- suffocating for him. You’re just staring at him with the expression of a woman prepared to commit violence with her bare hands.
Bob swallows. The sound is so loud it could be legally classified as a cry for help.
He coughs once, weakly, like he’s testing whether you’ll let him live. “So… uh… you okay?”
No reaction. Just those razor-sharp eyes, slicing through him like you're auditioning to be a guillotine.
He nods to himself. Stares forward again. “Cool. Cool-cool-cool.”
But his gaze keeps flicking toward the pink stick. Like it’s whispering to him. Like it’s telling him his life is over and diapers are expensive.
He finally caves. Slowly-- slowly-- he reaches for it, trying to slide it out of sight, out of mind, out of the universe. “Let’s… just put this away before it gives us both anxiety, yeah?” he whispers.
His fingers are an inch away when your hand shoots out.
You snatch the test with so much force he flinches like you just fired a weapon next to his ear. His soul leaves his body, returns, leaves again.
He recoils, rubbing the back of his neck, mortified. “Right. Yep. That’s yours. Sorry. My bad. I’ll just, uh… sit here and… stop touching things.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
You look furious. You look dangerous. You look like you might peel your husband like an apple.
And Bob, poor Bob, sitting among the ruins of a thousand calories, has the realization hit him again like a train:
All the mood swings. All the nausea. All the aggression.
He thought it might be a baby.
He thought you might be pregnant.
And judging by the way you’re staring at him, he absolutely should not have thought that.
He gives a tiny, strangled laugh. “I just-- I don’t know. You were… different. And I thought-- I thought maybe…” Another micro-flinch. “I wasn’t trying to say you were… y’know. Bigger. I love your body. All of it. Always. Forever. Please don’t kill me.”
You continue glaring.
He sinks two centimeters into the couch cushions.
“Cool,” he whispers hoarsely. “Loving this vibe. Totally calm.”
The test sits in your grip, pink, smug, and definitely about to ruin his life one way or another.
You stand up suddenly, pointing a finger right at Bob’s face like you’re about to assassinate his soul, your eyes blazing a little-- but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth that betrays how ridiculous this all is.
Bob doesn’t flinch. He leans in just enough to meet your finger with a faint, adoring smile, letting it rest against his cheek. “Yes, ma’am,” he says softly, like a knight pledging allegiance. “Your majesty, I accept full responsibility for… literally everything.”
You hiss something incomprehensible, but he nods like he’s taking notes for future reference. “Uh-huh. Got it. Noted. I will never, ever, under any circumstance… forget this moment,” he murmurs, voice practically vibrating with affection and a dash of terror.
Then, as you turn to storm toward the bathroom, he carefully slides off the couch, following at a cautious, respectful distance.
He’d planted himself outside the bathroom like some loyal, malfunctioning security system. Arms crossed. Then uncrossed. Then crossed again because apparently that felt less stupid. His knee bounced so hard the hallway mirror vibrated, so he slapped a hand on it like “shh, don’t snitch.”
He tried to act casual. Casual, like a man who was not currently sweating through his shirt. He leaned on the wall. Immediately slipped a little because he forgot he’d just mopped yesterday. Straightened up like nothing happened. Cleared his throat for absolutely no reason. Then pretended to scroll his phone even though the screen was black because he hadn’t unlocked it.
At one point he crouched down to tie his shoe. He wasn’t wearing shoes.
He whispered to the door, “Take your time,” in the softest voice, and then added way too fast, “Not… too much time, but like, whatever time you need. No pressure. Zero pressure. Negative pressure. Vacuum.”
Silence.
He nodded to himself, pacing two steps left, two steps right, like a guard dog who read one too many self-help books about giving his partner space. And when he heard the faintest rustle inside the bathroom, he immediately froze in a pose that absolutely screamed I wasn’t listening through the door please ignore everything about me.
His heartbeat was doing drumline choreography. His face was lit up with that terrified-hoping-praying look he only ever got around her.
And still, he hovered. Trying so hard not to be in the way. Failing in the cutest way imaginable.
Bob had been “sweeping” the hallway for an hour-- or rather, standing there holding a broom like it was a piece of equipment he’d never been trained on. Every few seconds, he’d glance at the closed bedroom door, chest tight, mind running every possible scenario he didn’t want to think about.
When the door finally opened, you stepped out.
Your eyes were puffy, clearly from crying, but there was something calmer in your expression now-- like you’d finally stopped fighting some internal storm. That soft glow wasn’t dramatic or magical, just… you looking like someone who’d been through something heavy and decided to breathe again.
His whole body went still.
“Hey,” Bob said quietly. Not loud, not awkwardly high-- just that gentle, slightly nervous tone he always used when he wasn’t sure if everything was okay.
You gave him a small smile. The kind of smile that had made him fall for you the first time and every day since. Even now, with your face blotchy from tears, it hit him like a tidal wave.
Then, with a sniff and a shaky attempt at humor, you asked, “Do you… know how to deal with diapers?”
Bob blinked. Once. Twice.
He absolutely did not know how to deal with diapers. Or babies. Or… this. But he did what he always did when confronted with something terrifying-- he tried to give you a soft, steady presence, even if his insides were a mess.
“I-- uh… probably not,” he admitted with a little half-laugh, voice tight. He stepped closer, drawn in by instinct more than thought.
His mouth opened, but no words came out. You watched him closely, and he could see it-- that small flicker of worry in your eyes. Like you were bracing for disappointment. Like you thought maybe he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you to go through this, or didn’t want the life it implied.
His face was frozen. His eyes full. His throat locked up.
And that silence-- that frozen moment-- made your expression fall.
But then you looked closer. Squinted a little. “Bob… are you crying?”
He swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered. But his voice cracked on the word, giving him away completely.
Before you could say anything else, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. Not a dramatic collapse-- just Bob holding on to you like you were the only stable thing in the world. His shoulders shook once, then again. Soft, quiet tears. Pure relief. Overwhelm. Hope.
You held him, your hand sliding into his hair, grounding him as he tried-- unsuccessfully-- to pull himself together.
“There, there Bob, I know diapers are expensive.”
After a long moment, he sniffed and pulled back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. They were a little red, a little puffy, but he didn’t try to hide it anymore.
“I’m happy,” he finally managed, breath trembling. “I’m really… really happy. I just--” He laughed weakly, embarrassment creeping in. “I genuinely have no idea what to do with diapers.”
It came out so honest, so Bob, that you couldn’t help it-- a soft laugh bubbled out of you, and he gave a shy, crooked smile at the sound.
You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the dampness away. “We’ll figure it out,” you said gently.
Bob nodded, breathing out a shaky exhale, eyes still shining but finally calm. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft, warm, certain because you were certain. “Yeah… we will.”
---
The plan was adorable. The execution, in theory, foolproof.
Unfortunately, they forgot who their friends were.
Hangman’s living room looks suspiciously like someone let a hurricane loose in a cowboy boot store, but whatever, you and Bob step over the boots, the magazines, and the cat toys like you didn’t come here to drop life-altering news on six fully grown children.
You slide the little gift box across the coffee table with the kind of hopeful flourish that deserves a soundtrack. It’s cute, pastel, tied with a bow. The perfect “let them figure it out and cry” moment.
Hangman opens it, peers in, and you can actually see the exact second this goes off the rails.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, starry-eyed. “You two bought a romper… for my daughter.”
Your brows twitch. Bob’s soul visibly leaves his body.
His “daughter” leaps onto the couch, hissing like a demon in polyester. Hangman’s already scooping him up. “Look how cute she’s gonna be!” he announces, tugging the romper over one struggling paw. The cat yowls like she’s being drafted into the ninth circle of hell.
“My little angel hates clothes,” Hangman says proudly as the cat tries to bite his thumb off. “She gets that from me.”
Phoenix is in the corner, arms crossed, grinning like she already saw the ultrasound photos and helped name the baby. She catches your eye, gives you a tiny nod that says I told Bob first, fight me.
The rest of the squad?
Fanboy: scrolling on his phone.
Payback: trying to untangle something from his shoelace.
Rooster: filming Hangman losing a battle with his own pet.
Coyote slipped into the bathroom yawning.
None of them have the faintest clue.
Bob clears his throat, the picture of exhausted fatherhood before it’s even started. “So… we’re actually… expecting.”
Fanboy doesn’t look up. “Expecting what?”
You blink. Bob blinks. Phoenix chokes on her drink.
Rooster tosses a fry in his mouth. “Food delivery? Because I could eat.”
Hangman is still getting mauled. “Guys, focus. My cat is adorable.”
There’s a long beat where you and Bob just stare at them, this collection of aviators who could disarm a missile at Mach 2 but cannot, apparently, understand basic human communication.
Phoenix finally claps her hands. “Pregnant, you idiots. They’re pregnant.”
The room freezes.
".....Bob Floyd you did the do?!"
Coyote’s face, popping out from the bathroom, lit up like someone had shoved a firework in his chest. “Wait… we’re uncles now? Like, real uncles?!”
Fanboy practically vibrated with glee, bouncing in place. “Bob Floyd… you did it first! First to get married, first to bring a baby into the squad… I-- this is so amazing! I can’t even!”
Rooster’s eyes were sparkling. “We get to hold the baby? We get to spoil it? We get to be the fun ones before they ruin it with rules?!”
Hangman, still nursing his mangled hand from earlier chaos, shook his head, trying to stay composed, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth. “Congrats, man. And yeah… you’re officially the benchmark. The baby’s going to be ridiculously spoiled, thanks to us.”
Coyote hopped from one foot to the other. “Tiny little humans running around! And we’re the uncles! We get to teach them chaos and bad jokes!”
Fanboy leaned close to Bob, voice soft with awe, practically bouncing on his toes. “This baby is about to be loved into oblivion. Honestly, it should feel honored.”
Bob and you just exchanged a glance, deadpan smiles barely holding back laughter. The squad was already completely smitten. Every squeal, every flail, every wide-eyed squeaky declaration of uncle-dom was pure love, and somehow-- somehow-- it made your hearts feel bigger just watching them.
You and Bob share the same deadpan expression, the one that hides both homicidal urges and fierce affection for these morons you somehow consider friends.
It’s always a blast telling life-shattering news to people whose combined IQ flickers like a cheap bulb.
---
Bob was the kind of husband who, when you sent him out to buy pickles at 3 a.m., came back with two jars of pickles, a pack of Oreos, a bottle of sparkling water, and three different types of cheese-- just in case you “needed a snack.” He was a little extra, but in the best way.
And you? You were a hormonal disaster wrapped in a pregnant glow that, one minute, made you feel like a goddess and the next, like a potato in a tank top. The “glow” was… debatable.
“Bob, I feel so fat,” you said one morning, glaring at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Your bump had popped out like a volleyball, and it was a shock every time you looked down and realized it wasn’t going away.
Bob was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mouth full of cereal. He paused, looking over at you with an expression that said, I know better than to say anything dumb right now. He put his spoon down slowly, his eyes softening with affection.
“No, babe. You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You glared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t say that.”
Bob blinked. “What?”
“You just said I’m beautiful. Which means you’re admitting I’m fat.” You crossed your arms over your chest, frowning at him. You knew you were being irrational, but at that moment, it felt like the logical conclusion.
Bob’s eyes widened. “No, no, no! That’s not what I--” He scrambled up from the bed and started to wave his hands frantically in front of him. “You’re not fat, babe. You’re carrying our baby, you’re glowing, and--”
“Stop, Bob,” you groaned. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but now I just feel like a balloon with legs. I’m not glowing, I’m miserable.”
Bob sat beside you on the bed, his hand resting on your back. “Okay, okay. Let’s compromise. You’re beautiful in every way, and this baby bump? Totally worth it. You’re literally growing a person.”
And then cupping your face, pecking you lips once, “And I know I don't understand you sometimes, but I will spend eternity trying to figure you out.”
You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you trying to win points for being a good husband? Because you are. You’re doing it.”
Bob smiled, obviously relieved. “I just love you.”
---
It starts innocent. Sweet, even. You and Bob are curled up on the couch, his hand on your stomach like he’s trying to decode Morse code from a blueberry-sized human.
Then Bob says, “What about… Mabel?”
You blink at him like he’s suggested naming the kid after a defunct tractor brand.
“Mabel? Bob, that’s the name of a woman who knits angry scarves.”
He looks mildly offended. “You like old names.”
“Vintage names, baby. Not… dust.”
And just like that, war begins.
Phoenix is the first casualty, because she walks in at the wrong time and immediately gets conscripted.
“What about something strong,” she suggests, stealing Bob’s coffee and ignoring his wounded gasp. “Something with presence. Like… Zara. Or Nova. Or Clementine. Something that sounds like she could steal my lunch money.”
Bob nods thoughtfully. You shake your head violently. “I’m not naming my child after a fruit OR a car.”
Cue Fanboy bursting in like he was summoned by the stupidity. “Name it after something cool. Something legendary.”
“Absolutely not,” Bob says.
“You didn’t even hear my suggestion.”
“Because you,” Bob says, “are about to name my child after a spaceship.”
Fanboy’s offended. “It was going to be Millennium, thank you.”
Rooster strolls in next, eating from a bag of chips like this is his Roman colosseum entertainment. “I say name the baby after me.”
“No.”
He shrugs. “Just putting greatness on the table.”
Hangman swans in with his cat under one arm, already exhausted by everyone else’s mediocrity. “If you want a powerful name, you should obviously go with Jake.”
You throw a pillow at his head. “I wouldn’t even name my toaster Jake.”
Hangman gasps like you’ve stabbed his patriotic spirit. “You wound me.”
The cat hisses. Probably in agreement.
Bob puts a hand on your thigh, calm and gentle, like he’s trying to restore order in a collapsing kingdom. “What about something meaningful? Something that feels like us.”
You soften for a second. “Like… June?”
His whole face lights up. And then Phoenix ruins it.
“She’s not being born in June.”
“It’s a name, Natasha.”
Fanboy pipes up, “If we’re breaking rules, can we name her after months in Klingon?”
“No.”
Hangman adjusts his cat, who is glaring at all of humanity. “Look, if you two insist on being boring, at least let the rest of us throw in middle names.”
Everyone starts shouting suggestions.
Rooster: “Blaze.”
Fanboy: “Starfire.”
Phoenix: “Please stop.”
Hangman: “Denim. Or Wrangler.”
You stare at them like you’re witnessing the end of civilization.
Bob leans in, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear. “We’re picking it ourselves, right?”
Your hand finds his. “Absolutely. They’re banned.”
Hangman lifts his cat’s paw like he’s making him wave. “She’s offended she wasn’t chosen as godmother.”
The cat swipes at him.
“See?” you deadpan. “Even your cat says no.”
The arguing continues for another ten minutes before everyone realizes the two of you are ignoring them and whispering quietly to each other, tossing soft names back and forth, testing how they sound, how they feel, how they fit.
And despite the noise, the chaos, the absolute incompetence of your beloved friends, the two of you land on a few that make you both smile.
Something yours. Something gentle. Something that feels like home.
Of course, the squad still thinks it was their idea.
They’re wrong. Obviously.
---
Midnight cravings were a whole other disaster.
Bob was not a fan of the 2 a.m. kitchen raids, but he did them anyway. You’d waddle into the kitchen in the dark, the refrigerator light flicking on, and Bob would stumble in behind you like a loyal puppy.
“My world, you’ve got to stop eating in the middle of the night. You’re gonna give yourself indigestion.”
You, on the other hand, were a woman on a mission. “Bob, I need chocolate-- and don’t say anything about the Oreos. I already ate those, too.”
Bob sighed dramatically. “You’re gonna be the first pregnant person to have a heart attack from eating sugar.”
“You’re not my mom,” you shot back, grabbing a jar of Nutella and a spoon. “Mind your business.”
“I’m just saying--”
“You’re just too cute,” you interrupted, with Nutella smeared on your cheek. “What would I do without you?”
Bob smiled softly, like he didn’t even mind that you’d eaten an entire pint of ice cream, some gummy bears, and had almost finished off the Nutella. “You’d probably make a mess without me,” he said, reaching out to wipe the Nutella off your cheek. “But I’ve got your back.”
---
“Wake up, husband. I need your back right now.”
It’s 3:07 a.m.
The world is quiet. Peaceful.
Then you shake Bob awake like you’re trying to resuscitate a startled walrus.
“Bobby,” you whisper. “I need something.”
His eyes open instantly. The man thinks you’re in labor forty weeks early. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Is it the baby? Say words.”
“I need,” you say, with solemn importance, “a grilled cheese dipped in… mango pickle.”
Bob stares at you like the universe just asked him to solve quantum physics. “Mango. Pickle.”
“And grilled cheese. Together.” You nod. “Please Robert. I can feel it in my soul.”
He rubs his face with both hands, muttering something so husband-coded it might legally qualify as prayer. But he gets up. Because he loves you. And because he’s too tired to argue with a pregnant person radiating sacred cravings energy.
He shuffles to the kitchen, hair sticking up like a confused baby chick, and begins assembling culinary war crimes.
The moment the pan sizzles, someone knocks on the door.
Bob jumps like he wasn’t expecting visitors during his personal episode of Chopped: Pregnancy Edition.
He opens it to find Phoenix, holding a toolbox. “I smelled burning from next door. Thought you were dying.”
Behind her, Fanboy peeks in. “Is that… cheese? It’s 3 a.m.”
You appear in the hallway. “It’s not cheese. It’s destiny.”
Fanboy nods solemnly. “I get it.”
“You knocked-up too?”
Phoenix walks in, sees the mango pickle jar, and freezes. “Are you two… cooking a felony?”
Bob stands at the stove, flipping the sandwich with the precision of a man resigned to weirdness. “She wants it. I’m making it. Please don’t judge me.”
“You’re flipping it like it’s a bomb,” Phoenix says.
“Feels like one,” he mutters.
The squad trickles in because apparently none of them sleep like normal humans. Also, they live right next door. Rooster rubs his eyes. Payback yawns. Hangman arrives last, holding his grumpy cat like a hostage.
“What’s going on?” Hangman asks, already irritated. “I heard sizzling.”
Phoenix gestures at the pan. “Cravings.”
Hangman leans over Bob’s shoulder. “That smells awful.”
The cat hisses.
Rooster winces. “Dude, don’t give that to her. She’ll throw up on your shirt.”
You glare at him. “I won’t.”
Bob slides the monstrosity onto a plate. “Everyone stop talking. She’s happy and that’s what matters.”
Fanboy claps softly like Bob just performed a magic trick.
Bob walks it over to you with the devotion of a man delivering a royal offering. You take one bite.
The entire room watches.
Your eyes widen. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Bob sags against the counter, whispering, “Thank god.”
Hangman crosses his arms. “So are we all making you snacks at nightmare o’clock now?”
“No.” You smile smugly. “Just Bob.”
The squad collectively pats his shoulder like he’s been drafted.
Bob just smiles at you, tired and soft, his whole face saying he’d do it a thousand times if it meant you smiled like that again.
And for once, the squad doesn’t tease him.
Well… until Hangman mutters, “The baby's gonna have rotten tastebuds.”
The cat hisses at him.
Accurate.
---
Then there was the insomnia phase. It hit at around week 30. You couldn’t sleep to save your life, no matter what you tried. Not only did your body feel like it was carrying a small planet, but Bob also snored like a bear trapped in a cave.
You tried to ignore it at first, rolling over in bed to put your pillow over your ears. But that didn’t work. You tried nudging him to roll onto his side. That didn’t work either.
Finally, you gave up.
You shuffled out of bed, grabbing your pillow, and dragging yourself to the couch. It was going to be a long night.
But just as you settled in, hoping to catch at least a few hours of sleep, you heard it.
The sound of snoring-- louder, closer, and right in your ear.
You groaned and turned over, only to find Bob, with his eyes closed, his body curled around you. He had followed you out to the couch.
“Bob,” you muttered, half-amused, half-frustrated. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t open his eyes, but his hand reached out to pull you closer. “I can’t sleep without you.”
You sighed, rolling your eyes, but honestly? It was kind of cute. Very cute. Your husband was the epitome of cute.
“Bob,” you grumbled again, but it was less of an argument and more of a why are you so perfect tone.
Bob let out a sleepy hum, nuzzling into your neck. “If you’re not sleeping, I’m not sleeping,” he mumbled.
And even though you were exhausted, even though he’d just invaded your personal space in the middle of your insomniac meltdown, you couldn’t help but smile. He was, in fact, the ultimate husband material.
---
Pregnancy hormones were like turning a dial labeled “mildly flirty” all the way up to feral chaos. One second you were normal, the next you were the apex predator of lust, eyes locking onto Bob like he owed her an apology and a blowjob.
Girls’ night out was supposed to be wholesome. It was not. You were a few weeks pregnant and acting like a Victorian heiress fainting on a sofa. Hand on your debatable "flat" stomach, you sighed loudly enough to be heard three tables over.
“The baby is craving a vacation in the south of France.”
Natalie tch'ed mid–lip gloss application. “You’ve been pregnant for five minutes. The only trip you’re taking is to the bathroom.”
“Oh?,” you said, sipping your drink like a queen with medical delusions. “I'll have you know, I don’t control the baby’s desires, Nat. If the fetus wants a beach villa and a man named Laurent bringing us pastries, who am I to interfere?”
Reuben’s girlfriend snorted so hard she almost inhaled her straw. “Girl, how are you pregnant already? It’s only been what? Half a year? You didn’t even try to run out your warranty.”
You sighed. “If my husband wasn’t so stupidly fuckable, I would not be in this biological hostage situation.”
All three girls exploded like feral parrots.
“Not Bob Floyd!” Natalie slapped the table. “He looks like he asks permission to breathe near you.”
The third girl, Esha chimed in, already a little tipsy. “No, he looks like he sets a timer during sex. Like, ‘uh oh sweetie, I’ve hit my thrust quota for the day.’”
The table roared. Actual shrieking. A waiter turned around like he was checking if someone needed emergency services.
You stared at them. Pleasantly. Smiling. Meanwhile, your soul was halfway to the moon.
Because the truth was sitting in your throat like a grenade:
Excuse me, my husband has a cute face, a killer fat cock, and eats me like he’s fulfilling a sacred oath. I am pregnant because he is dangerously good at what he does.
But instead you just said, with the politeness of a woman trying not to commit violence:
“Haha. Totally. Vanilla. Definitely not rearranging my spine. Sure.”
They kept giggling. You kept sipping. Your child, allegedly craving France, was probably already judging these women.
Finally, you rolled your eyes and muttered, “Sorry my husband is perfect. As if that’s my fault.”
Natalie waved a hand dramatically. “Whatever, you’re glowing. That’s how I know the sex is still good.”
“Trust me, if the glow ever fades, you’ll hear him crying first.” you smirked into your drink. “And good honestly, I’d hate for all his effort to go unappreciated.”
Natalie huffs. “See, this is why you’re the married one and I’m in situationships with men who fear soap.”
“My guy’s idea of effort is remembering which side of the bed is mine.” another chimed in.
You, shaking your head, picked up the menu and immediately frowned, like it had personally betrayed you. Your eyes darted across page after page, each dish a tiny assault on your already fragile pregnancy brain. “Why… why are there so many options?” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.
Natalie peeked over your shoulder, trying not to grin. “Uh… it’s a menu? You know… food?”
“No, Natalie. It’s a test. A trap designed to see if I can survive adulthood and motherhood at the same time. Look at this! Pasta! Risotto! Tiny salads! Enchiladas! And what if the baby hates the wrong one?” You jabbed a finger at the menu as if stabbing it for being cruel.
Esha tried to intervene, giving a sympathetic shrug. “It’s literally just food, you know…”
Also, baby brain.
“Just food?!” you snapped, voice rising like you were addressing a jury. “Do you even see what’s happening here? Each choice is a commitment. Every wrong pick could result in permanent regret. Or-- worse-- the baby judging me silently while it’s still forming in my uterus!”
Rueben's girlfriend leaned in, wide-eyed. “Uh… maybe the baby will just… like food?”
“Oh no. It’s not that simple!” you gasped, grabbing the edge of the table for support. “If I choose the shrimp risotto, the baby could have preferred chicken! If I pick the chicken, the baby may secretly wish I’d ordered the pasta! There’s no winning, I tell you. None. Absolute chaos!”
Natalie snorted, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “Okay… I have to say, I did not expect to witness this level of dramatic culinary panic.”
You threw your napkin down in defeat, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh. “God, I’m so mad... I’m going home to touch my husband’s tits so I won’t be mad anymore.”
Cue eyes rolling back to their brains.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. You picked it up, saw the name, and a grin spread across your face.
“Ooooh, a pretty boy calling me,” you murmured, cheeks warming.
“Who’s thiiiis?” you say with a smirk, your voice teasing even over the phone.
“Hmm… could it be your devoted husband calling to remind you how much he misses you?” Bob’s voice is playful, but there’s a soft warmth underneath.
You giggle, tilting your head. “Oh really? Is that what you’re calling yourself now? Devoted, huh?”
“Absolutely,” he says, chuckling. “And very concerned about my gorgeous wife being out on her own. Are you being good?”
“Good?” you laugh, resting your belly against the couch. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I might be a little… mischievous.”
“Mischievous?” he repeats, mock horror in his tone. “I can’t have that. I might have to come collect my troublemaker myself.”
You hum, delighted. “Oh, I think you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d love it more than anything,” he says, voice melting soft. “I miss you. I miss this-- hearing your voice, laughing with you, just… being you.”
“Hmm,” you sigh playfully, “you better hurry then, or I’ll have all the fun by myself.”
“Impossible,” he murmurs, a warm smile in his voice. “I’ll be there soon, and then all the fun will be ours. Count every second, m'love.”
You grin, feeling your heart swell. “I’m counting… and I’ll be waiting, hands and heart ready.”
Bob laughs softly, the kind that makes you feel safe and cherished. “That’s my girl. See you soon, my beautiful wife.”
“And you, my handsome, insufferably sweet husband,” you whisper before hanging up, already feeling him near.
You hang up, cheeks still warm from hearing Bob’s voice.
Your friends are frozen, deathpan, eyes barely twitching as they take you in.
“…So… we’re not enough for you anymore?” one murmurs, voice flat but just a touch heartbroken.
You giggle, leaning back and wiggling your fingers at them. “Oh, silly! You’ll always be enough. But… he’s just my perfect boy, okay?”
The twitch in their eyes grows just a little, betraying their amusement, and one of them huffs softly. “Absolutely disgusting.”
You laugh, pressing a hand to your belly, feeling all warm and fuzzy. “Disgusting? Girl, even talking to him isn't enough, I need to be inside his white blood cells and protect him.”
They groan in perfect unison, tiny smiles flickering, “Touch grass.”
You slam your hands on the table, making the cutlery rattle and your excitement practically vibrate through the room. “Touching grass isn't enough. I need to be fuckin' railed.”
The engine hums outside. You glance up-- Bob’s trusty navy blue truck.
You giggle, wave goodbye to your friends, and rise, swaying a little as you walk toward him.
He’s already out of the car, hurrying, eyes locked on you, a smile that melts you waiting at the curb.
You meet him halfway; he brushes a strand of hair from your face, you laugh softly, leaning into him.
From inside, your friends watch through the window, hands pressed to the glass, eyes wide, tiny twitches betraying their jealousy as they take in your perfectly lovey-dovey bubble.
“Absolutely unfair.”
“They’re literally showing off and it’s illegal.”
“Jealous doesn’t even start to cover it.”
---
You waddle inside, belly swaying slightly, the soft jingle of the front door announcing your arrival.
Bob follows behind, keys jingling in his hand, and the moment his eyes land on you… his grin brightens, then falters ever so slightly.
That look. The one that makes his heart skip and a warm, fluttery feeling spread through him. Playful. Mischievous. Softly dangerous in the most adorable way.
“Uh-oh,” he murmurs, his voice half-laugh, half-whisper. “What is my pretty wife plotting now?”
He can’t help it-- his grin grows, giddy and full of love, and he takes a small step closer, drawn to you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
Even just standing near you makes his chest feel too full, and he silently vows: no matter what she’s planning… he’s exactly where he wants to be.
Bob barely gets another breath out when your hand lifts, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants with slow, intentional purpose.
He freezes. His smile flickers. His soul briefly leaves his body.
You look up at him with the most solemn, ceremonial expression known to man, like you’re about to pass down a royal verdict.
“Top me,” you declare, voice grave and steady. “I deserve it.”
It sounds less like a request and more like you’re announcing a sentence from the High Court of Horny Pregnant Wives.
Bob blinks once. Twice. His ears go pink.
“Sweetheart… you can’t just--”
But you’re still holding his waistband like it’s evidence.
And you look terrifyingly committed.
“I… I can’t dare,” he says, voice soft but firm. “There’s a bun in the oven, my love. That’s… that’s strictly off-limits territory.”
You tilt your head, eyes wide and soft, shimmering with a little pout. “Doesn’t my dark circles make me look… irresistible?” then with a offended gasp, “You’re telling me my exhaustion isn't attractive?”
He cups her face, looking into her eyes with all the warmth he feels. “Exhaustion? I don’t see it. I see the woman I love… more stunning than ever. Always.”
You giggle teethily, leaning into his touch, your belly brushing against him slightly, eyes wide and sparkling as you look up at him with all the adorableness in the world.
“Then fuck m--”
“Nope.”
“Come on, Bob… just a little…” you whisper, voice soft and teasing, tilting your head.
He freezes, his grin faltering as he sees that mischievous glint. “Absolutely not,” he says, voice firm but gentle, hands lingering on your sides. “It’s too… I don’t know, darling. Feels weird. And… the baby might be watching.”
Your expression freezes into a calm, terrifying stillness-- like a storm gathering. Bob swallows hard, already regretting ever thinking “no” was an option.
“Whatever… whatever my goddess wants,” he whispers, voice soft and shaky, eyes wide and full of helpless adoration.
You tilt your head slightly, letting the tiniest smirk play on your lips. His hands hover uncertainly, unsure whether to pull you close or just stay frozen, completely undone by your gaze.
“You’ve got me, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice barely audible, like saying it aloud makes him even more vulnerable.
Your giggle is quiet but triumphant, brushing your belly lightly against him. His arms move almost automatically, wrapping you close, like a magnet drawn to your pull. Bob is utterly, hopelessly in love-- and completely yours.
Time passed, as it always does, and soon the chaos of bringing a tiny human into the world would test even the strongest hearts…
Your eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep and the haze of labor, only to catch the sight of Bob curled up beside you, his cheeks streaked with tears, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
He grips your hand like he’s afraid you might vanish, burying his face against it. “I… I can’t… we’re never doing this again!” he mutters dramatically, voice thick with emotion. “Never! You could’ve died! I-- God, I can’t… I can’t risk it ever again!”
You blink, still half-asleep, trying not to giggle at the sheer theatricality of him, the way he’s completely undone, completely vulnerable, and completely in love with you all at once.
“Pissing me the fuck off all by yourself, handsome?,” you whisper, squeezing his hand back gently, your lips twitching at his ridiculous, heart-melting panic.
Bob lets out a shaky laugh, burying his face in your hand again, whispering, “Never… never again,” though you know that in a week, he’ll be smitten and hopeless all over again.
Your gaze drifts lazily across the room, still heavy with exhaustion. On the other side, your dad leans in, gently handing you a cup of water. You manage a small, grateful smile as Bob hovers nearby, carefully helping you sit up.
A wince escapes you as your feet brush against the bed railing, and your dad immediately moves to the edge of the hospital bed, softly massaging them, as if trying to soothe every ache and worry away.
Bob instinctively leans closer to take over, hands hovering nervously, but your dad shoots him a sharp, almost-faulting glare, as if to say “this is your doing, young man.”
Your mom sits beside you, damp cloth in hand, gliding it gently over your sweaty forehead. Her voice is soft and steady, brimming with pride. “You did so well… so, so well,” she murmurs, brushing a stray hair from your face.
You close your eyes briefly, letting the mixture of care and love wash over you-- the quiet strength of your parents, the shaky devotion of your husband, and the overwhelming sense of everything they’ve all endured together.
“Look at those little hands! Already plotting world domination… or just snack time? Either works.”
Your eyes flutter open, heavy and hazy, and you take a slow, groggy blink. Across the room, a figure blocks part of your view-- Hangman, a little hunched over the crib, his hand in a cast from the labor chaos, but still smiling like nothing could bother him. Somehow, even injured, he radiates this strange, chaotic warmth.
A soft smile spreads across your lips, and you turn your head to Bob. “So… what did you name the baby?” you ask quietly, voice still thick with sleep.
Bob grins, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “I named her Lila,” he says softly, pride and love threading through every syllable.
Your lips part, eyes lighting up. “A girl…” you whisper, the realization warm and strange all at once.
Bob nods, a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes. “Yep… and I named her all by myself. So you...” he smiles, “...can have all the fun naming the baby boy.”
Your heart stops. “Wait… baby boy?” you croak, eyes widening in shock.
Your gaze drops, and there it is-- Hangman standing carefully, cradling two babies in his arms. One sleeps peacefully, tiny chest rising and falling, while the other stares dead-on at Hangman’s face, eyes wide and unwavering.
Twins.
You blink, dumbfounded, then glance at Bob, who just smirks, shrugging like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Hangman, oblivious to the chaos he’s caused, gives a small, proud hum, adjusting the sleeping baby with one hand, the other still in a cast, but handling them both like it’s second nature.
Your lips curl into a mixture of awe, exhaustion, and laughter. “Twins,” you breathe, shaking your head, utterly overwhelmed, and secretly thrilled.
“Bob… I think the diaper budget just filed for bankruptcy.”
✿
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