𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗
in which you stopped looking back
You graduated early.
Not because you were trying to prove anything. Just… because staying felt like suffocating.
UConn had too many ghosts. Too many empty chairs. Too many late nights walking past the gym where you knew she’d be—except you never went in. Not once. Not after.
So you finished your degree, packed your car, and drove across the country with everything you owned crammed in the backseat and a playlist long enough to drown your thoughts.
San Francisco felt far enough.
It was the job that sealed it—a communications role with a tech startup that liked your clean resume and liked your voice even more. You took the offer before you could talk yourself out of it.
You didn’t tell anyone where you went. Not even mutual friends. It was easier that way.
Clean slate. New sky. Different ocean.
You don’t expect to meet her at a dog park.
But grief’s funny like that.
You’re sitting on a bench with a notebook open on your lap, the kind you still carry even though your job’s mostly Slack messages and decks now. You’re jotting down lines that don’t go anywhere, half-poems you’ll never finish.
You don’t notice the tennis ball roll up to your foot until there’s a low woof.
You glance up.
Golden retriever. Panting. Tail wagging. Big brown eyes staring at you like you hold the answer to all of life’s questions.
And then you hear the voice.
“Sorry about that—he thinks everyone wants to play with him.”
You look up again.
She’s tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair pulled back in a braid. Black Valkyries hoodie, sleeves rolled. Her smile is wide and warm, the kind that’s easy to get used to if you’re not careful.
You hold up the tennis ball. “He’s not wrong.”
She grins. “You new around here?”
You nod. “Just moved.”
“Welcome to the best coast,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Kate.”
You hesitate for half a second, then take it.
Her grip is solid. Steady.
“Nice to meet you,” you say. “I’m… still getting used to the time difference.”
“You’ll adjust. And if not, the coffee’s better here anyway.”
That makes you laugh—quiet, but genuine. A flicker of something you haven’t felt in a while.
Kate watches you for a beat too long.
Her dog trots over, tail still wagging.
“He’s not subtle,” you say.
“Neither am I,” Kate replies with a wink. “You live around here?”
“Couple blocks that way.”
She nods. “Me too. Small world.”
You don’t know what makes you say it, but you do, “What do you do?”
Kate shrugs like she’s used to people not recognizing her. “Basketball.”
You tilt your head. “College?”
“WNBA.”
Your eyebrows raise.
“Golden State Valkyries,” she says. “Just moved here with the expansion. Number twenty.”
“Oh.” You blink. “You’re that Kate Martin.”
She laughs. “Depends. Which Kate Martin were you thinking of?”
You smirk. “The one whose buzzer-beater made my cousin cry in March.”
Kate grins. “Guilty.”
You glance down at the notebook in your lap. The half-written sentence. The empty line that follows.
“Well,” Kate says, throwing the ball again, “if you ever want a tour of the city, I give a decent one. And I know the best burrito spot in the entire Bay Area.”
You hesitate.
She sees it.
Something flickers behind her smile—something kind. Patient. Like she’s not going to push.
“No pressure,” she says. “Maybe I’ll just see you here again.”
You nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”
You do see her again.
Three days later.
Same park. Different bench. This time, you’re sipping coffee and pretending not to wait for her.
She sees you first.
“Told you,” she says, dropping onto the bench beside you, “best coast.”
You glance sideways. “Still undecided.”
Kate bumps her knee against yours. “I’m working on it.”
You don’t tell her about Azzi at first.
It takes months.
Of dog park conversations. Shared coffees. Quiet walks where neither of you says anything because the air already feels full enough.
She texts you sometimes—mostly memes, weird food pictures, photos of her dog wearing sunglasses.
You laugh more than you used to.
Smile more freely.
Grief, for the first time, starts to feel like something soft around the edges.
The night you tell her is cold.
You’re sitting on her couch after a win, both of you still buzzing from the energy. She’s sprawled across the cushions with a hoodie half-zipped, feet in your lap. You’re nursing a ginger ale and trying to ignore the way her laugh makes your chest ache.
And then she asks, softly, “Who was she?”
You blink. “What?”
Kate’s eyes stay on yours. “The one who still lives in the way you look at sunsets. And coffee. And dog parks.”
You stare at her for a moment. “Her name’s Azzi.”
Kate nods. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.
You tell her about the mornings. The silence. The way it ended before it ended.
You don’t cry. Not this time.
When you finish, Kate doesn’t say anything profound.
She just shifts closer and takes your hand.
And you realize you’re not waiting anymore.
You’re healing.
It doesn’t happen all at once. Nothing worth keeping ever does.
It happens the way sunlight finds the edges of your window before you’re ready to wake. The way laughter creeps into your chest when you least expect it. The way Kate doesn’t ask for pieces of you—you just start giving them.
You think the shift starts the night she asks if she can stay.
“You look exhausted,” you tell her as she kicks her shoes off in your entryway.
Kate sighs dramatically. “We had film, weights, and media today. One more question about how it feels to be an underdog and I might retire.”
You chuckle. “It’s week two of the season.”
“Exactly. Premature burnout is real.”
You raise an eyebrow as she flops onto your couch like she owns it.
“You want dinner or sympathy?”
“Both,” she mumbles into a pillow.
You order Thai food.
She helps you clean up even though she didn’t lift a finger to cook, and afterward, you both end up sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, her shoulder brushing yours like it's always meant to be there.
Somewhere between the second can of La Croix and you gently wiping curry sauce off her chin, she yawns.
And you say it—quiet, instinctive, “You can stay, if you want.”
Kate’s eyes flick up to yours. “You sure?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
She sleeps in your bed that night.
Fully clothed. A soft snore. The dog curls up at her feet like he already knows.
You lie awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths. It’s not romantic. It’s not even new. But it feels like something coming home.
After that, it becomes a pattern.
A rhythm.
She stays sometimes. Not always. Just when the air feels heavier and neither of you wants to say goodbye at the door. There’s no sex. No confessions. Just shared toothpaste, mismatched socks, and the way she knows how to fill the silence without crowding it.
She never kisses you.
Not until you’re ready.
It’s raining when it finally happens.
You’re both sitting on the balcony of your apartment, knees pulled up, mugs in hand. The city lights blink soft in the fog. There’s music playing faintly from inside—something mellow and wordless, like a thought that hasn’t formed yet.
Kate’s eyes are on the sky.
“Did you ever think it’d be like this?” she asks.
You glance over. “What?”
“Growing up. Getting older. The parts they don’t prepare you for.”
You think about it.
“No,” you admit. “I thought it would be simpler. Happier.”
Kate hums. “Me too.”
You sip your tea. “Are you happy now?”
She looks at you for a long moment. Then sets her mug down.
“I’m trying,” she says. “But sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for something I haven’t named yet.”
Your breath catches. “Me too.”
And she kisses you.
It’s soft. Intentional. No fireworks, no dramatic movie score. Just her lips on yours—gentle, reverent, like she’s asking permission and promising not to run.
You don’t pull away.
When it breaks, her forehead rests against yours.
“You okay?” she whispers.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Did that feel okay?”
You meet her eyes.
“It felt like the first thing in a long time that didn’t hurt.”
Afterward, nothing changes all at once.
You don’t suddenly start calling her your girlfriend. You don’t delete old photos or stop dreaming about a life you almost had with someone else. But you do start saying goodnight with a kiss. You start looking forward to grocery trips together. You start smiling at the sound of your door unlocking at the end of a long day.
And when you cry—on a Wednesday afternoon for no reason at all—Kate doesn’t ask you to explain. She just holds you, murmuring quiet things into your hair like, “You don’t have to be okay every day,” and, “I’m not going anywhere.”
One night, as you lie curled into her chest, you whisper, “Do you ever feel like we’re building something with pieces that broke off other things?”
Kate runs her fingers through your hair.
“All the time,” she murmurs. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”
You press your face into her shoulder and breathe her in—clean laundry, mint, and something that already feels like home.
You still think about Azzi sometimes. But it’s not a wound anymore. It’s just a scar.
And tonight, you’re not living in a memory. You’re living in the moment.
With Kate.
It doesn’t happen in a moment. You don’t wake up one day and stop thinking about her. That would be too easy.
Instead, it fades.
A little more every day.
You notice it in the quiet first. The way your thoughts no longer drift toward the “what if.” The way you go a full morning without remembering how Azzi used to take her coffee. The way you catch yourself smiling at nothing in particular — just Kate’s toothbrush next to yours. Her flannel thrown over the back of your desk chair. The way she hums when she cooks eggs.
You stop dreaming about the past because you're finally living something that feels like a future.
It hits you, slowly, that Azzi doesn’t live here anymore.
Not in your apartment.
Not in your chest.
Not in your every thought.
She was your before.
But Kate… Kate is your after.
And you’re starting to realize after doesn’t mean lesser.
It means survived.
It means stayed.
The first game you go to, she doesn’t know you’re there.
Kate had brushed it off during breakfast that morning. “It’s just preseason. Nobody comes to preseason.”
You didn’t argue.
You just bought tickets anyway, because the truth is, watching her play feels like watching the sun crack open a storm.
You sit in the third row behind the bench, hoodie up, coffee in hand, sunglasses hiding your face even though you’re indoors. She doesn't spot you during warmups. Doesn’t even glance into the crowd. She’s too focused. In the zone. Fierce and fluid, her jersey clinging to her shoulders like it was stitched to her skin.
The game is fast-paced. Tight. She plays like she’s been doing this her whole life.
You find yourself yelling — not just cheering, yelling — every time she makes a three.
A guy behind you laughs. “You her sister or something?”
You grin. “Or something.”
When the Valkyries win in overtime and she’s mobbed by teammates, she finally scans the crowd.
You wave once.
She stops.
Mouth open.
Then she smiles — big and bright and real — and blows you a kiss in front of thousands.
“You came.”
That’s the first thing she says when she barrels through your door that night, still in her post-game sweats and ponytail.
“I always will.”
Kate drops her bag, walks right up to you, and wraps her arms around your neck. “I played better because of you.”
“You didn’t even know I was there until the fourth quarter.”
She leans back just enough to look at you. “Didn’t matter. I felt different. Stronger.”
“You hit five threes.”
“And I thought about you after every one.”
You shake your head, blushing. “You’re ridiculous.”
She kisses your cheek. “I’m in love.”
You blink.
She freezes.
And for the first time, she looks scared.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” she says quickly. “Not like some big thing. It just slipped out—”
You press your hand to her chest. “Say it again.”
Kate blinks. “What?”
“Say it again,” you whisper.
She breathes in. “I’m in love with you.”
Your heart catches.
Because for the first time in years, there’s no shadow in your chest. No ghost in your lungs.
Just Kate.
You take her face in your hands.
And say it.
“I’m in love with you too.”
The moving in part isn’t dramatic either.
It’s just… the next step.
It starts with a toothbrush. Then her record player. Then the drawer in your dresser that fills up with her team-issued hoodies and Valkyries gear.
One night, while folding laundry, you hold up her socks and say, “Do you want a key?”
Kate glances over, frozen with a spoonful of peanut butter halfway to her mouth.
“A key?”
“Yeah.” You toss her the socks. “I mean, you practically live here.”
She blinks. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “I want you here.”
She sets the spoon down slowly. Walks over. Pulls you in.
“I was scared you’d never say that,” she whispers into your hair.
You look up. “I was scared I’d never feel safe enough to.”
The first night you officially live together, she makes you dinner.
It’s awful. Undercooked pasta. Over-salted sauce.
You eat every bite.
She watches you with wide eyes. “You hate it.”
“I love it,” you lie, chewing bravely. “It’s aggressively seasoned.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“I love you.”
She grins. “Okay, that works.”
You do dishes together. She sings off-key. You splash her with water.
Your dog watches from the doorway like he’s never seen you this happy.
Maybe he hasn’t.
“Did you ever think we’d get here?” you ask her one night, curled on the couch with her legs over yours, TV on mute.
She turns her head. “Here as in…”
“As in this. Together. Safe. Full.”
Kate studies your face for a long second. “I hoped. But I never expected it. I figured you’d leave a little space in your heart for her forever.”
You go quiet. “I did.”
She nods.
“But not anymore.”
Kate turns. “Really?”
You nod, voice quiet. “I don’t think about her the way I used to. Not with ache. Just… a chapter. One that had to end to make space for this.”
Kate looks like she might cry. You kiss her before she can.
Her lips taste like home.
The smell of eggs wakes you before the light does.
You shuffle into the kitchen wearing her oversized Valkyries hoodie, hair a mess, eyes half-closed.
Kate’s already flipping something in a pan, hair wet from a shower, humming off-key.
She doesn’t turn around.
“You’re up late,” she says, grinning. “That’s two days in a row. I’m starting to think you’re becoming a night owl.”
You lean your head against her shoulder. “I was up at 6:30 yesterday.”
“Only because the dog farted directly on your pillow.”
“Betrayal from within.”
She laughs, sliding eggs onto your plate. “Breakfast of champions.”
You raise a brow. “This is toast with cheese and scrambled eggs.”
“Exactly.”
You both eat at the kitchen island, barefoot, knees touching under the counter.
No phones.
No rush.
Just soft chewing and the scrape of plates and the quiet understanding that this—this—is peace.
“You’re not getting that,” you say, grabbing the double-stuffed Oreos from the cart.
Kate gasps. “You monster.”
“We have five packs at home.”
“Yeah, but these are seasonal.”
“They’re red. That’s the only difference.”
“They taste festive.”
You laugh, setting them back on the shelf. “I’ll make you homemade cookies.”
“You just want an excuse to use your stand mixer again.”
“I love my stand mixer.”
Kate bumps your hip with hers. “I love you more.”
A kid behind you groans dramatically. “Ugh, get a room.”
You and Kate just smirk at each other.
No room needed.
This aisle is enough.
Sometimes, the nights are chaotic.
Pizza boxes. Game replays. The dog racing back and forth with a sock you never meant to sacrifice.
Sometimes, they’re quiet.
Kate builds a pillow fort in the living room with you one Saturday just because she can.
You watch a movie under the blanket ceiling, her hand on your thigh, her thumb drawing slow circles that say everything she hasn’t said out loud yet.
“I’d marry you tomorrow,” she mumbles against your neck.
You laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’d say yes.”
Kate pulls back. “Oh, really?”
“Maybe I’m holding out for a ring.”
She grins. “So you would say yes.”
You kiss her. “Try me.”
She kisses you back. But nothing happens the next day. Or the next week. And you let it go. Because you trust her timing. Because loving her has never been about pressure.
Just presence.
You come home from work late.
There’s no big buildup.
No camera crew.
No rose petals on the floor.
Just Kate standing in the kitchen with flour on her cheek, baking something that smells like cinnamon and home.
You drop your bag.
Tilt your head. “What’s going on?”
She shrugs. “Felt like making cookies.”
You walk over and kiss her cheek. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know.”
There’s music playing quietly in the background. A soft guitar instrumental. One you used to play on loop when your hands shook too much to type.
Kate takes the tray out of the oven and sets it down with a soft smile.
“Want to try one?”
You nod. Grab one.
Take a bite.
Something hard clinks against your teeth.
You blink.
“What the hell—?”
Kate is already grinning.
You pull out a small, sealed plastic capsule.
You stare at her. Then back at the cookie. Then at her again.
“No,” you whisper, heart in your throat.
She’s already kneeling.
She opens the capsule.
Pulls out a delicate gold ring.
Simple. Elegant. So Kate.
“I don’t want the big moment,” she says. “I want the small ones. Forever. The boring days. The mismatched socks. The way you hum when you make tea. I want every grocery aisle and pancake morning. I want you in all your moods. I want the quiet — if you’re in it.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t speak.
“I want home,” she says. “And that’s you. So… will you marry me?”
You laugh through a tear. “You baked my proposal.”
She shrugs. “I knew you’d be hungry.”
You grab her face and kiss her so hard the flour from her cheek dusts your lips.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A hundred times yes.”
She stands, spinning you, and you don’t remember the last time you felt this light.
The dog barks. The oven beeps again.
The world keeps spinning.
But you — you’re still in her arms, saying yes.
You’re a few months into married life when the question starts to surface — not like an explosion, but like mist curling under the door.
It’s not a moment. It’s a million of them.
It’s Kate falling asleep on your chest mid-movie with your hand resting low on her stomach. It’s watching her at a Valkyries fan event, signing a little girl’s jersey and kneeling to tie her shoelace like she’s been someone’s mom forever. It’s you looking up from your laptop one morning, seeing her reading an article titled “10 Things No One Tells You About IVF”, and quietly bookmarking it.
It’s not if anymore.
It’s when.
You’re folding laundry together on the living room rug, legs criss-crossed, piles of socks between you.
Kate holds up a tiny onesie.
You frown. “Why do we have that?”
“It’s from when your niece visited.”
“You kept it?”
She shrugs. “It’s soft.”
You stare at her.
She stares back.
The moment stretches, long and open and weightless.
You speak first. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
Kate sets the onesie down carefully. “Me too.”
You swallow. “For how long?”
“A while,” she admits. “Since before we got married.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want to rush you.”
You look at her. “Kate… nothing about this feels rushed.”
She exhales slowly. “Okay. So what do we do next?”
You smile.
“We figure it out.”
The research phase is brutal. Endless acronyms. Clinic visits. Folders full of pamphlets.
You talk about adoption.
You talk about IVF.
You talk about sperm donors, legal rights, insurance loopholes, parental leave.
Kate makes a spreadsheet.
You make a playlist called “Baby Fever”.
Your dog seems to know something’s happening. He stays close, rests his head on your lap more often.
One night, Kate’s curled up against you on the couch, her fingers tracing your thigh under the blanket.
“What if I’m not good at it?” she asks quietly.
“At spreadsheets?”
“At being a parent.”
You tilt her chin gently so she’s looking at you.
“Kate, you’ve been taking care of me since we met.”
She smiles, but it’s fragile.
You cup her cheek. “You are steady. Patient. Kind. You lead with your heart. That’s all a kid really needs.”
Her eyes shine.
“You’ll be good too,” she whispers.
You kiss her forehead. “We’ll figure it out together.”
You both start sleeping later. Not because you’re tired. Because you're dreaming out loud more. The first time you think it’s happening, it’s a Tuesday.
Nothing dramatic. No morning sickness or glowing cheeks. Just… a pause.
A quiet shift in your body.
You’re brushing your fingers over your lower stomach while Kate folds towels on the bed. She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you with that look — the one that’s both too careful and too full of hope.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, breaking the silence.
You shrug. “I feel different.”
Kate freezes, towel half-folded.
“Different how?”
You hesitate.
“Just… tired. And sore. And I cried at a Subaru commercial this morning.”
She puts the towel down.
You don’t say it out loud. Neither of you does.
But you feel it.
Maybe.
You lie in bed, feet tangled, sheets kicked off.
“What would we name her?”
Kate’s voice is soft, drowsy. “Her?”
You shrug. “Just feels like a girl.”
Kate hums. “I like Avery.”
You smile. “I like Eliza.”
“We sound like we’re picking out names for a dog.”
You glance at the dog asleep on the foot of the bed.
“He is named Pancake.”
“Fair.”
You roll onto your side. “Would you want to carry, or…?”
She blinks. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I think I want to.”
“Yeah?”
You nod. “I want to know what it’s like. To feel her kick. To know I brought her into the world.”
Kate’s hand slides to your stomach, warm and steady. “You’re gonna be so hot pregnant.”
You snort. “That’s your takeaway?”
“I will be unhinged. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically.”
You throw a pillow at her.
She catches it, laughing, then pulls you back in and kisses your forehead. “You’re going to be a great mom.”
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore.
It feels real.
The first test comes three days later.
Negative.
You stare at the single line like it betrayed you.
Kate sits beside you on the edge of the tub. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.
You finally speak, voice small. “I really thought this was it.”
She nods. “Me too.”
You lean into her shoulder, forehead resting against her collarbone. She wraps her arms around you and rubs slow circles into your back.
“We’re okay,” she whispers. “This doesn’t mean anything. Just one try.”
You nod.
But the ache stays.
Not disappointment — not exactly.
Just the weight of almost.
The second time, it’s worse. Your period’s a week late. You don’t tell her right away. You can’t bear to watch the hope bloom in her eyes again if it’s only going to wilt. But she notices anyway.
“You’ve been quiet,” she says, one night, over pasta.
You poke at your food. “Just tired.”
“Work tired or something else tired?”
You hesitate too long.
Kate sets her fork down.
“Babe.”
“I didn’t want to get ahead of anything,” you say. “But it’s been a week. I didn’t want to say it out loud and jinx it.”
She’s already reaching for your hand. “Can I be excited now?”
You nod.
She squeezes your hand tight.
You take the test two mornings later.
Kate’s in the kitchen making coffee. She doesn’t hover. She knows you like to be alone.
You stare at the stick for ten straight minutes before the second line never comes.
It stays blank.
Stark.
Silent.
You walk into the kitchen with the test still in your hand.
Kate sees your face.
“Oh,” she says.
That’s all.
Just, “oh.”
You nod.
She doesn’t cry.
You do.
Just a little.
Into her hoodie, against her chest.
She holds you while the coffee pot beeps behind you.
“Maybe next month,” she says softly, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.
You whisper, “I don’t want to feel like this every month.”
And that — that makes her cry.
Just a tear or two. Quiet.
Because you both want this so badly it aches.
Because you know it’s not a promise. Not for people like you. Not even with science and love and timing on your side.
Later that night, you’re curled together on the couch. The dog is asleep. The TV’s playing some documentary neither of you are really watching.
Kate strokes your hair.
“Can I ask you something?”
You hum. “Yeah.”
“If it never happens… if we keep trying and trying and it never works…”
You look up.
“I’ll still choose you,” she says. “Every time.”
You press your face to her chest and whisper, “You’re already everything.”
Kate finds you in the kitchen at 2 a.m., wrapped in a blanket, nursing a glass of water you don’t remember pouring.
She doesn’t speak at first.
Just pads over in her fuzzy socks and wraps her arms around you from behind.
You lean into her.
“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whisper.
Kate rests her chin on your shoulder. “Then don’t. We’ll stop.”
You turn to look at her. “You don’t mean that.”
She shrugs. “I mean… I want this. With you. But if you need to stop, we stop.”
You stare at her for a long moment.
“Tell me why we’re doing this,” you whisper.
Kate’s eyes are soft but certain. “Because I’ve seen the way you hold our friends’ babies. Because you tear up when you see toddlers in bookstores. Because I’ve seen how gently you love things. And because I want to raise someone with you who knows that kind of love.”
You look down at your hands.
“Do you still believe it’ll happen?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I still believe in us. And that’s enough to try again.”
You let the silence sit between you. “Okay. One more time.”
You don’t want to take the test.
Not because you don’t want to know. But because this is the last morning you still could be pregnant. Before the world says yes or no. Before it becomes fact.
There’s something sacred about this space — this limbo between believing and knowing. Between maybe and mama.
Kate’s still asleep when you slip out of bed, pulling her hoodie on over your tank top. The apartment is dark except for the faint glow of sunrise seeping under the blinds.
You pad barefoot into the bathroom. You take the test. You set it on the edge of the sink.
And you wait. Heart pounding. Eyes closed. You don’t look at it right away. You brush your teeth. You pet the dog.
You check your email, even though there’s nothing there but a newsletter from that baby site you accidentally subscribed to months ago.
Then you go back. You pick it up.
Two lines.
Two.
Not faint. Not tentative.
Clear.
Positive.
You don’t breathe for three whole seconds.
Then you sit on the floor.
And cry.
Kate finds you like that.
Hunched in the corner of the bathroom, clutching the test like it’s breakable, tears tracking silently down your cheeks.
She doesn’t panic.
She knows you.
Instead, she kneels in front of you, eyes scanning yours.
You hold the test up.
She reads it.
And for a long, long moment, neither of you speak.
“…You’re pregnant?”
Your lip trembles. “I’m pregnant.”
Kate lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
She cups your face in both hands, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead, your nose, your wet cheeks, your lips.
“You’re—you—you did it. Holy shit, babe.”
You nod.
Still stunned.
“I thought I imagined it,” you whisper. “Every symptom. Every ache. I thought I was doing that thing where my body fakes it again.”
Kate shakes her head, forehead resting against yours. “Not this time. You’re really pregnant.”
You let the words sit in the air.
Later, you're on the couch in her lap, wrapped in a blanket, both still in pajamas.
You hold the test between you like it’s a photograph of the future.
“I think I’m still in shock,” you admit, voice quiet.
Kate kisses your temple. “We’ve been preparing for this so long… and now that it’s real, it doesn’t feel real.”
“What if I mess this up?”
“You won’t.”
“What if something goes wrong?”
“We’ll handle it. Together.”
You rest your head on her shoulder. “What if I fall apart?”
“I’ll hold you.”
You glance up. “What if I need pancakes at 3 a.m.?”
Kate grins. “You’ll have pancakes at 2:59.”
You laugh, finally.
The first real, full one in weeks.
Kate pulls you closer, palm resting over your belly.
“I love you,” she whispers. “And I love them. Already.”
Your hand covers hers.
And for the first time — it really sinks in.
You’re not waiting anymore.
You’re beginning.
You decide to tell your people together.
It feels right.
You’ve kept so much close to your chest for so long — the early attempts, the heartbreak, the negative tests — but this time is different.
This time, it’s not a maybe.
This time, you get to celebrate.
And you want to do it with the people who carried you both when you couldn’t carry yourselves.
You and Kate settle in on the couch with your laptop propped up on a pillow and the dog nestled between you like he’s also in on the secret.
Kelsey Plum joins first, her camera at an odd angle, her head half cut off.
“I swear I know how Zoom works,” she mutters, adjusting. “Hi, gays.”
“Hi, chaos,” Kate says.
“Where’s the party?”
Then A’ja Wilson joins, sunglasses on indoors, sipping from a water bottle roughly the size of a toddler.
“Alright, what’s this emergency meeting?” she asks. “Y’all getting matching tattoos or something?”
Sydney Colson joins last, mid-laugh. “Please say you’re starting a reality show. Or a pyramid scheme. Or both.”
Kate smirks. “Better.”
“I knew it,” Sydney says, raising both hands like she just got baptized.
You glance at Kate.
She nods.
You hold up the ultrasound photo.
There’s a beat.
Then Kelsey screams.
“NO. YOU’RE—”
“I’m pregnant,” you say, already tearing up again.
Sydney gasps. A’ja stands up and disappears off-screen entirely. You hear the thump of her running around her house.
“Y’all really—?!” Sydney is blinking hard, trying to recover. “Wait. Wait. Is this for real?”
“For real,” Kate confirms, brushing a tear off her cheek. “We just hit eight weeks. Everything looks good so far.”
“I’m gonna cry,” Kelsey says, already tearing up. “Like, real-life tears. Y’all did it. Y’all really did it.”
A’ja finally returns. “I had to grab my fan,” she says, dramatically waving herself. “I’m emotional and sweating. My girls are gonna be moms?!”
You nod, overwhelmed.
Sydney leans forward. “So when do we get to be the drunk aunties?”
“Immediate effect,” you say. “Full clearance.”
Kelsey snorts. “Don’t play, I already got tiny Nikes in my cart.”
“I want the baby to call me ‘God-tier Auntie Sydney,’” Sydney says.
Kate rolls her eyes. “We’ll see how they feel about titles once they’re verbal.”
“Can I call dibs on introducing them to basketball?” A’ja asks.
“You’ll have to fight Kelsey,” you say.
“You know I’d win,” Kelsey says, deadpan.
Sydney screams.
It takes twenty minutes for the call to calm down. You sit there, teary, hand in Kate’s, watching them love you from across the country.
It feels like your baby is already being welcomed home.
“You’re glowing,” Kate says one morning, watching you sip orange juice in her old Iowa hoodie, which now barely fits over the swell of your lower belly.
You blink at her. “I’m sweating.”
“Glowing.”
“I haven’t slept in three days. I cried because a pigeon walked into traffic.”
Kate nods, totally unfazed. “Glowing.”
You roll your eyes, but inside?
You like it.
You like that she’s seeing you in ways you’re still learning to see yourself.
You’re brushing your teeth when it happens.
A faint, fluttery pressure.
You freeze. You wait. You press your hand against your belly and whisper, “Kate?”
She’s in the other room. “Yeah?”
You’re still frozen. “I think…”
She appears in the doorway, toothbrush still in her mouth, eyes wide.
You grab her hand, place it low on your stomach, and wait.
Then another flick. Soft, like a tiny stretch.
Kate gasps so hard she chokes on her toothpaste.
“OHMYGOD!”
You both start laughing, clutching each other, your mouth still full of minty foam, her eyes wide with tears.
“She kicked,” you whisper.
“She kicked.”
Kate drops to her knees right there on the bathroom tile and kisses your belly.
“You already know how to make an entrance,” she whispers to your bump. “Just like your mom.”
You raise an eyebrow.
Kate winks. “Not you. The dramatic one.”
It becomes a nightly thing.
Kate talks to your belly.
Not cutesy stuff, either — actual conversations.
“Hey, baby. So your mom cried because we ran out of pickles. And then again when we found more pickles.”
“She lies. I did not cry.”
“She wept. She sobbed. She almost named you Vlasic.”
You kick her from the couch.
Later, in bed, she speaks in hushed tones.
“Your mom is braver than she knows. She carries both of us, you know? And I think you’re going to be like her.”
You pretend to be asleep, but your fingers curl around hers.
You’re in a bookstore, wandering the children’s section, when Kate pulls a book off the shelf and reads the title out loud.
“‘Mama, Do You Love Me?’”
You nod.
She opens it, reads a few lines silently, and then quietly says, “I’m gonna read this to her someday.”
You stare at her.
At her calm, certain face. At the way her fingers graze the pages like they’re already part of your baby’s life.
And that’s when it hits you.
Not just that you’re pregnant. Not just that you’re having a daughter. But that you get to raise her with Kate.
And suddenly the past doesn’t hurt anymore. Not in the same way. You are not a broken thing building something new.
You are whole.
And you’re about to bring someone into the world who will be loved from the very beginning.
Sydney Colson is in charge of the games.
Which is the first mistake.
She shows up in a tiara and a “Hot Aunt” sash and hands out whistles with rules like, “If anyone says the word baby, you lose a point.”
Kate immediately says, “Baby.”
Sydney blows her whistle in her face.
Kelsey Plum is in the corner judging the food table like it’s a Michelin restaurant.
A’ja makes a playlist called Womb Vibes that includes Destiny’s Child, Sade, and one rogue Wu-Tang track.
Tiffany Hayes wins “Who Knows Kate Best” with disturbing accuracy.
Kate’s mom, Jill, brings a homemade quilt and starts crying as soon as you open it.
Kate’s sister, Kennedy, hands you a framed photo from the day you found out you were pregnant — the one Kate secretly took of you crying on the bathroom floor, holding the test like it was the whole world.
You cry for most of the afternoon.
And when the guests leave and you’re surrounded by tiny socks and bottles and notes scribbled in pastel-colored cards, you whisper, “It feels too good to be real.”
Kate kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.
“It is real,” she says. “Because we made it.”
You wake up to pressure.
Not pain, not at first — just a dull weight in your lower back, like something heavy settling inside your body. The clock on the nightstand glows just past 3 a.m. Kate is still asleep beside you, one hand draped over your stomach, her breathing soft and even.
You lie there for a while, not moving. Not yet. Not sure if it’s real.
Another wave comes. Sharper this time. More insistent.
Your breath catches. You close your eyes.
It’s happening.
It’s finally happening.
By the time you gently shake Kate awake, the pressure has turned to pain — not unbearable, but growing. She blinks at you, confused at first, and then wide-eyed as she sees your expression.
“Is it time?” she whispers.
You nod. “I think so.”
She’s instantly out of bed, already in motion. Her calmness doesn’t mask the tremble in her voice when she says, “Okay. Okay. Hospital bag. I’ll get the car ready.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, both hands cradling your belly. “Don’t forget the playlist.”
She freezes, mid-sock. “Are you serious right now?”
You give a shaky smile. “Contractions Vibes was your idea.”
Kate exhales a breathless laugh, kisses your forehead, and disappears down the hall, mumbling, “God, I love you.”
The drive to the hospital is quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the soft shuffle of your breath. You grip the side handle of the passenger seat and wince through another contraction. Kate reaches over and squeezes your hand. Her thumb runs circles over your knuckles the whole way.
You’ve both rehearsed this moment so many times, but now that you’re living it, everything feels strangely distant — like you’re watching it happen from outside your body.
Kate speaks gently as she pulls into the parking lot. “You’re doing so well, babe. We’re almost there.”
You nod, but your hands are shaking.
You’re not sure if it’s fear or adrenaline or both.
In the hospital room, the air is cold and sterile, the fluorescent lights too bright. Nurses move quickly around you, efficient but kind. Kate stays by your side, her hand never leaving yours. The pain builds with each contraction — sharp and tightening, like your body is folding in on itself. You grip the sheets, the bed rail, her fingers. Anything to ground yourself.
“Breathe with me,” Kate says, her forehead pressed to yours. “In and out. Just like that. I’ve got you.”
Her voice is the only thing that cuts through the pain.
Time becomes something elastic — it stretches, contracts, loses shape. Hours pass, or maybe minutes. You’re not sure. You only know that your body is opening, splitting, preparing. You’re afraid. You tell Kate that. Quietly. In the moments between.
“I’m scared,” you whisper into her shoulder.
“I know,” she says. “Me too. But we’re doing this. Together.”
She wipes sweat from your brow, kisses your knuckles, murmurs encouragement even when you curse, even when you sob, even when you scream through the pain. She doesn’t flinch. She just stays.
That’s what love does.
When it’s time to push, the room shifts again. More people. More light. The midwife’s voice is calm but firm.
“You’re doing great. You’re almost there.”
You dig your heels into the bed. You bear down. You scream. Kate’s hand anchors you, and her voice is in your ear the entire time.
“You’re so strong. I’m right here. You’ve got this. I love you. I love you.”
You don’t know how long it takes. You don’t care. You only care about what comes after.
And finally, a cry.
One sharp, perfect cry that breaks something open in your chest.
You collapse back against the pillows, breathless, exhausted, shaking.
The baby is placed on your chest, tiny and warm and slippery and real.
She cries, and so do you.
Kate’s crying too. She’s covering her mouth with both hands, staring at the little girl in your arms like she’s witnessing a miracle.
And maybe she is.
“She’s here,” you whisper.
Kate nods, brushing tears from your cheeks. “She’s so beautiful.”
You both stare at her — blinking, squirming, perfect. She grips your finger, impossibly small.
“Hi, baby,” you say, voice thick. “I’m your mama.”
Kate leans in. “And I’m your mom.”
Your daughter yawns, already content. Like she knew this was home all along.
the room quiets.
The nurses step out.
It’s just the three of you now.
Kate lies beside you, one arm cradling your shoulders, the other resting gently over the baby sleeping on your chest. You’re both quiet. Not from exhaustion — though that’s there — but from reverence.
This is the beginning of something holy.
You whisper into the stillness, “We did it.”
Kate kisses your temple. “You did it.”
You shake your head. “We did.”
She looks down at your daughter.
And then back at you.
And smiles.
You’re at Golden Gate Park with your kids on a warm Saturday afternoon, sunlight slicing through the trees in golden slivers. Your daughter is three, your son one—both wrapped in the kind of laughter that makes every sleepless night worth it. You sit on the bench nearby, coffee in hand, sneakers scuffed from the short walk over, eyes tracking their every move.
You’re still not used to how full your life is. But you love it.
“Mommy!” your daughter yells, waving wildly. “Doggie!”
You look up, smiling. “Where?”
She points.
And that’s when you see her.
Azzi.
She’s walking along the trail with a golden retriever bounding in front of her, a leash still dragging behind. Her hoodie is baggy, hair tied up, sunglasses low on her nose. She bends down, laughing softly as she grabs the leash—then straightens.
She sees you.
Everything stops.
Your breath catches. It’s not a punch to the chest. It’s a slow, deep inhale of something you buried a long time ago. Something that still smells like fall mornings in Connecticut and heartache at 3 a.m.
You meet her eyes.
And Azzi… she doesn’t look away.
You don’t move at first. Neither does she.
You just look at each other—six years of silence coiling in the air between you, humming like a wire too taut.
Azzi makes the first step.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft. Hesitant.
You nod, standing slowly. “Hey.”
