Headcanons of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, and Carrie White with their s/o telling, or rather asking them for a baby. They have been married for a while, and their s/o have thought about it for a really long time, but it wasn't until one day out of nowhere that they asked them for it. Perhaps even begged for it since not only has baby fever gotten to them, but they always wanted children. Their own little family.
Slashers' Reaction When Their S/O Asks For A Baby
Summary: Imagine the reaction of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White reacting to you asking them for a baby.
Includes: Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White
A/N: I was really excited about this request, I loved writing it and I thought it was really cute too, thank you for sending the request and supporting me in writing!
It wasn’t something you planned to say out loud. Not yet. The idea had lived quietly in your heart for a long time, tucked away like a delicate flower pressed between the pages of an old book. You and Jason had been married for years. You had a rhythm, a quiet life in the heart of the woods. Safety. Love. Peace.
But lately, you’d felt it stronger than ever—that aching, cloying pull in your chest every time you saw a baby blanket in town, or watched birds build a nest. A deep-rooted longing. A need for something more. For someone that was both you and Jason. A new life. Your family.
You’d tried to ignore it.
The moon hung low over the lake, casting soft light over the clearing where Jason was stacking firewood. You watched him for a moment—his massive frame moving with slow care, the same man who once was seen only as a monster. But to you? He was gentleness. Loyalty. Home.
You approached slowly, heart pounding: “Jason… can we talk?”
He turned immediately, his attention fully on you like it always was. He tilted his head slightly, sensing the tension in your voice. He dropped the wood from his arms and walked over, towering over you, but never imposing.
You took his hand. His gloved fingers curled instinctively around yours.
“I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. And I—I didn’t know when the right time would be to say it. But I… I can’t hold it in anymore.”
Your voice cracked at the end, but you pushed through, your fingers clutching at his vest. “With you. I want our child. Someone we made together. I want to raise them here. I want to build a family with you, Jason.”
The clearing fell silent.
Jason didn’t move. Not at first.
Then—very slowly—he sank to his knees in front of you. The giant, the boogeyman of Crystal Lake, on his knees like a man who just had his soul cracked open. His head pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist as he held you like you might float away if he didn’t. You felt the tremor in his chest. Silent, invisible sobs. His body shaking.
Your fingers slid into the curls behind his mask.
“I know it’s scary. I know the world never gave you anything but pain. But this… this would be ours. No one can take this from us.”
He pulled back slightly and looked up at you.
Then, very slowly, Jason took your hand and pressed it against his chest—where his heart would be, beating strong. The masked gaze locked with yours, full of emotion even behind the scratched old hockey mask.
It was silent, but loud in his language. That simple gesture said everything. Yes. I want that too.
Yes, I want a child with you. Yes, I want a family.
From that night on, Jason changed.
He started building things. Cribs. Tiny carved animals from wood. He began clearing out the spare room in the cabin. Every time you showed a sign of fatigue or discomfort, he’d lift you without hesitation and carry you somewhere to rest. He became your silent guardian all over again—but now, for something he couldn't even see yet.
He watched your body with awe, almost reverence, when you began trying. You could feel it in the way he held you afterward—strong but delicate, like you were glass and fire all at once.
When he thought you were asleep one night, you felt his hand on your belly. Not lustful. Just… hopeful. Like he was already saying hello to a future he never dared dream of.
And if that child ever comes to be?
Jason will protect them like he protects you—with everything he is. Because they’ll be a part of you. And to Jason, you’re the whole world.
You’d known for a few days now. Maybe longer.
The nausea. The strange flutter in your lower belly. The deep fatigue that no nap could fix. You knew your body better than anyone, and this time—something was different. Real. You took one of the few pregnancy tests you’d stored in the cabin’s small bathroom, your hands shaking so badly you almost dropped it.
When the positive line appeared, bold and undeniable, you stared at it like it was a dream.
You sat on the edge of the tub for what felt like hours, cradling your stomach, whispering, “You’re real…”
Tears slid down your cheeks. But this time, they were from joy.
Now came the hardest part—telling him.
Not because Jason wouldn’t want it. You knew he did. But because Jason Voorhees, this mountain of strength and silence, had never truly believed he could have something like this. Not really. It would be your child, and his, and his heart—already so wounded—might not know how to hold something that sacred.
You found him outside by the lake, sitting near the dock with his feet in the water. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky with oranges and pinks. You stepped carefully down the slope, heart racing, the test hidden in your palm.
He heard you coming—he always did—and turned slightly. You saw that tilt of the head again, his version of a question.
You sat beside him, pressing your shoulder to his.
“Jason… I have something to tell you. Something… important.”
He immediately gave you his full attention. Still. Waiting.
Your hands shook. You took his larger hand and placed it on your lower stomach, covering it with both of yours.
You stared into the lake for a long second, then whispered:
“You’re going to be a father.”
The air seemed to stop moving.
Jason didn’t move. His breath stilled. The hand under yours began to tremble faintly.
You turned to look at him, eyes already glassy with tears. “I’m pregnant. With your baby. It’s really happening.”
He jerked back just slightly—not away from you, but like he’d been struck by lightning. His hand lifted and hovered uncertainly over your belly, before he gently pressed his palm against you again, slower this time. Reverently.
You nodded, voice cracking. “You did this. We did. You made a life, Jason…”
And then, for the first time in a long time, Jason’s shoulders broke.
He hunched forward, pressing his masked face into your lap, into your belly, as his huge arms wrapped around you protectively, almost desperately. His entire body trembled, and you felt the smallest sound escape him—a choked, muffled sob.
He held you like you were his anchor, like the world was spinning too fast and you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His fingers slid under your shirt to feel bare skin, not with lust, but in disbelief and awe.
When he finally looked up, he reached to lift his mask just enough for you to see his mouth—lips trembling, jaw tight, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners, something he never let anyone else see.
He placed the gentlest kiss on your belly, and you felt it shake slightly with his breath.
“Mine,” his voice rasped out—quiet, raw, and barely a whisper. The first word he’s said in months.
You broke then, sobbing as you held him. He didn’t move from that spot for hours, just resting his head against your belly, listening like he might already hear something.
That night, when you both finally went inside, you found the small wooden cradle he’d made long ago. It had been gathering dust in the back room, quietly waiting.
He brought it into the bedroom.
You’d been thinking about it for a long time—years, really. You and Thomas had made a life together after everything calmed down. The chaos had quieted. The house wasn’t filled with the screams of strangers anymore—just laughter, soft music from the radio, and the occasional hiss of a skillet on the stove. You had love, safety, a roof over your heads. But one thing was missing: your own family. A child.
The thought had built up slowly at first… but now it was loud. Persistent. You wanted to hold a little one that had his eyes. You wanted to see Thomas cradling someone so tiny in those enormous hands. You dreamed of baby giggles echoing down the halls of the Hewitt farmhouse. And today, something in you snapped.
He was in the kitchen, apron on, humming quietly to himself as he cut vegetables. His brow was furrowed in concentration, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. You watched him for a long time, your heart full, your chest tight.
“Tommy… I want a baby. With you.”
The knife paused mid-slice. His whole body tensed, like a string pulled taut. He didn’t turn to you right away, didn’t make a sound. His fingers trembled slightly. You stepped closer, voice softening.
“I mean it, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about it for so long. I want to have a family. Our family. I want a little one that we can raise together. I want them to feel safe, to feel love like we do. And—”
Your voice cracked. His shoulders slumped the moment he heard it. He turned to you, mask still on but eyes wide and glassy with tears. You didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.
He set the knife down and walked toward you slowly, as if making sure you were real. As if scared you might disappear.
And then he dropped to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. His forehead rested on your stomach, a choked, emotional sound escaping his throat. He didn't speak, but his body did all the talking. He trembled. He clung. He understood.
You whispered against his hair:
“I want our baby, Tommy. Please. I need this... I’ve never wanted anything more.”
He looked up at you with glistening eyes, nodding so hard it seemed like his whole body moved with it. A soft grunt escaped him as he gently pressed a kiss—through his mask—against your abdomen.
That night, he was the most tender he had ever been. Every touch was full of meaning. He worshiped you. His hands were careful, slow, reverent. As if helping you conceive was something holy.
Something shifted in Thomas after that. He changed.
He began to prepare. Quietly at first.
You caught him staring at a broken crib out in the barn—something Hoyt had probably scavenged and forgotten about. A few days later, it was gone from the scrap pile. He’d fixed it. Painted it. Lined it with soft fabric.
He began carving things. A mobile with woodland animals. Teething toys. Rocking horses. You didn’t ask—he just did it, pouring all of his love and nervous energy into creation.
He also started fussing over you. If you so much as sighed, he’d be at your side with a worried look, checking if you needed water, a blanket, anything.
Luda Mae knew something was up the moment she saw how Thomas hovered around you. She gave you a knowing smile one morning and handed you a baby book she kept from when she was younger.
“Just in case,” she said softly, with warmth in her eyes.
Thomas had never seen himself as someone worthy of love—let alone worthy of fatherhood. But you, with your soft words, your unwavering love, your plea for a future—you changed that. You made him believe it was possible.
In the quiet hours of the night, when you were asleep in his arms, he’d gently rest a hand on your belly and imagine it growing round and full. He’d imagine holding your child, swaying them gently in the rocking chair, singing lullabies in his muffled humming way.
He feared passing down pain, but your voice echoed in his mind:
“They’ll be safe, because they’ll have you.”
It had started with little signs. A missed period. A wave of nausea that came on stronger each morning. Your body, once still and silent, now felt different. Alive. Shifting. It scared you… but mostly? It thrilled you.
You bought a small test in secret—something you had to lie to Hoyt about when he caught you coming back from town. You clutched it like a lifeline, palms sweating.
And when the second line appeared?
You sat on the bathroom floor in stunned silence, hand trembling over your mouth.
It was real. It was finally happening.
You were carrying Thomas Hewitt’s baby.
You waited until the timing felt right. He’d had a hard day, out butchering meat in the sweltering Texas heat. Now, back inside, he was scrubbing his hands in the sink while Luda Mae quietly stirred stew behind him. The house buzzed with its usual rural stillness.
You stepped up behind him and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt. He turned, already melting a little when he saw your shy smile.
Then you pulled a tiny handkerchief from your pocket. Folded in it was something small and white. You pressed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it.
He opened it slowly, unsure. When he saw what was inside—the positive pregnancy test—he stared at it, silent. Frozen.
“Thomas...? I—I thought maybe I should wait, but I couldn’t. I had to tell you. You’re going to be a daddy.”
“I’m really… I’m really pregnant, Tommy.”
His hands began to shake.
He looked from the test to you, then back again. Then his entire body just collapsed to his knees before you like someone who had been shot through the chest with emotion.
His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, squeezing—not roughly, but needing. Desperate. His mask bumped against your belly, muffled sobs escaping from behind the leather. His body shook as he cried into you.
You’d never seen him cry like this.
Tears soaked through your shirt as he looked up at you with eyes red and raw, one hand gently—gently—spreading over your belly.
“Tommy,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”
He nodded hard, over and over again, hand still on your stomach like he was afraid to let go—as if it would disappear if he blinked. Then he stood up, towering over you, still trembling. He reached for your hands, placed them on his chest, and grunted something deep and full of gratitude.
He was saying, Thank you.
I love you.
I’ll protect you both with my life.
You found him sitting on the floor by the crib he had fixed months ago—just staring at it.
He’d placed a single baby blanket in it already. His hands were resting on the side rail, his thumb slowly brushing over the edge. He looked lost in thought, a little overwhelmed.
You came up behind him and sat beside him, taking his hand.
He looked at you, eyes still red but softer now. At peace.
He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles gently before resting his head against your shoulder.
The two of you sat there in the quiet for a long time.
The stars were bright that night. The wind outside was soft. And in that stillness, Thomas imagined the sound of tiny footsteps in the hallway, the weight of a small body resting against his chest, the lullabies he would hum while rocking them to sleep.
He had never felt more complete than he did right now.
The wax studio is filled with that familiar scent of warm paraffin, the soft scratch of tools working against clay, and the creak of old floorboards under your feet. You’ve been sitting on the couch in the corner of the room, quietly watching Vincent sculpt for the past hour. He hadn’t asked you to leave—he never does—but you can tell by the way he glances at you every few minutes that he’s aware of your presence.
There’s something about watching him work that fills your chest with warmth. The way he loses himself in his craft, how focused his hands become, how even his breathing slows to match each movement of his blade. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s just the weight of time finally building up to this moment... but you suddenly can’t hold it in anymore.
You walk over quietly and place a hand on his shoulder. He pauses but doesn’t turn. Just leans slightly into your touch.
“Vincent…” Your voice is soft—barely more than a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”
He tilts his head a little, curious.
“I want a baby. Your baby. I want our own little family.”
Not dramatically. Just... stillness, like all the air left the room. The kind of stillness that only Vincent can embody—deafening, heavy, deliberate.
You keep going, even though your heart is pounding. “I know it’s sudden, and maybe it’s scary, but I’ve wanted this for so long. I want to wake up in the morning to the sound of little feet running through the house. I want them to have your eyes… your soul.”
He sets his sculpting tool down slowly. You can see his hand tremble ever so slightly. He still won’t look at you.
You step in front of him, crouching down until you’re eye-level. Carefully, you reach up and brush your fingers along the edge of his mask. He lets you lift it—he always does. He’s learned that with you, he’s safe. He doesn’t have to hide.
His one visible eye is glossy, a storm of emotions warring behind it—disbelief, wonder, fear, yearning.
“I’m not asking for a perfect life, Vincent. Just ours. And maybe I sound selfish, but I want to carry a piece of you. Something beautiful from the both of us.”
He exhales hard—almost like a sob—and cups your face with his hands. You lean into him, feeling the quiet quiver of his fingers.
Then, wordlessly, he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow and aching, as if pouring all the emotions he doesn’t have words for into that moment. His kiss tells you yes a thousand times.
In the weeks that follow Vincent becomes obsessed with the idea of fatherhood. Not in a loud, boastful way—he simply begins channeling it through his art. You notice subtle changes in his work. He begins sculpting infants in wax, cherubic and serene, tucked gently in the arms of faceless figures that feel suspiciously like you.
One night, you catch him sketching by candlelight. The paper shows a child—half-drawn, soft features, long lashes, the faint trace of a scar over the lip. A blend of your features and his own. When you gently ask him what it is, he lowers the paper shyly but allows you to see. You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I think they’re beautiful.” He doesn’t reply, but he clutches the sketchbook to his chest after you leave.
When you bring up trying again, maybe even beg for it—his response is immediate. He carries you to bed, his touch reverent, treating your body like something sacred. He’s gentle but determined. His way of saying, I want this as much as you do. That night, there are no masks, no silence between you. Only shared breath, whispered words of hope, and a love so thick it feels like candle wax—heavy, slow, warm, and everlasting.
Afterward, he keeps his hand on your stomach for a long time, as if hoping he can will life into existence just by touching you.
Vincent doesn’t speak much—but when he holds you tighter than usual, when he builds a cradle from reclaimed wood and lines it with soft wax, when he starts making space in the house for someone small—you know he’s saying:
The house is quiet—almost too quiet.
Even the wax figures seem more still than usual, as if the entire world is holding its breath.
You’ve been walking around in a daze all morning, one hand unconsciously brushing over your belly again and again. You keep replaying the moment the test turned positive—how the lines darkened slowly, almost shyly, like even it was in awe of the possibility.
You haven’t told him yet. Not because you’re scared—well, maybe a little—but because you want the moment to feel right. Sacred. Private.
You find him in his studio.
He’s sculpting, lost in the trance-like rhythm he always falls into. Wax shavings gather at his feet, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, veined forearms. You hesitate in the doorway, watching him work.
And then, in a voice trembling with everything you’ve tried to hold back, you say softly:
“Vincent... I have to tell you something.”
He pauses. His body stills in that signature way, but his head turns to you almost immediately. His hair falls over the edge of his mask.
You take a slow breath, trying to keep your hands from shaking. One hand rests gently on your stomach again.
Not the kind that fills the room awkwardly—but the kind that means something has shifted.He blinks. Once. Twice. His hand drops the sculpting tool. It hits the floor with a dull clatter, but he doesn’t notice.
You smile, a little nervously. “You—you’re going to be a father, Vincent.”
He stares at you, unmoving. His eye glistens. And then, slowly, carefully, he crosses the room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
He kneels in front of you. Both his hands reach out hesitantly, almost shaking, and hover just above your belly. He doesn’t touch at first. He looks up at you for permission. You nod, tears already slipping down your cheeks.
His hands press lightly against your stomach. It’s still flat, but he touches it like it’s full of stars. And then he leans in, resting his forehead against your belly, trembling. His mask presses gently against your shirt as he holds you with all the reverence in the world. No words, just the soft sound of his breathing—hitched, overwhelmed, and so full of emotion.
You thread your fingers through his hair and whisper:
“They’re going to have your eyes... your hands... your heart.”
He pulls back, just enough to look up at you. His one eye is red-rimmed, wet, raw. His hand gently cups the side of your face. There’s no mask between you now.
He lifts you into his arms without a word and carries you to your shared bed. Not to make love—not tonight. Tonight, he just wants to hold you.
He wraps his arms around your back, one hand splayed over your stomach all night, refusing to move. He doesn’t sleep. He watches you, protectively, like he’s guarding the beginning of everything he never thought he’d have.
You hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.
It started as a quiet moment in the kitchen. You were sitting on the counter while Bo fixed something under the sink, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, grease on his cheek, muttering curse words at the rusty pipe. The sun was bleeding through the windows, catching the gold in his eyes, and you were suddenly struck by this aching need. That familiar pang had been growing inside you for months now—quiet, tender, powerful.
And before you could stop yourself, you said it.
"I want to have your baby."
Bo froze mid-motion. His wrench clattered to the floor with a dull metallic thud.
He stared at you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “...Come again?”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Bo. I mean it. I want... I want us to have a baby. I want a family.”
He gave a short, disbelieving laugh—nervous, deflective. “Aw, darlin’, you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause Lottie next door just popped out another one. Baby fever’s catchy as hell, huh?”
But when he looked up and saw your eyes—glassy, trembling with sincerity—his heart sank.
You weren’t joking. Not even close.
Bo Sinclair, for all his bravado, had never let himself picture something so vulnerable, so pure. Not for real.
He’d always known how to charm, how to seduce, how to play the part of the smooth-talking man with the confident grin. But being a father? That terrified him in a way nothing else could.
Because deep down, he didn’t believe he was cut out for it.
Not after the way he was raised. Not after what his father did to him. Not after the screaming, the belt, the bruises hidden behind long sleeves. Not after watching his mother choose silence over protection. Not after years of telling himself that he was just too damaged, too broken, too much like him to ever risk repeating the cycle.
But then you looked at him—really looked at him—and everything cracked.
"Please, Bo..." you whispered, voice raw and trembling now. "I’ve thought about it for so long. I want a baby. I want your baby. I want them to look like you... talk like you... I want to build something good with you. I know what kind of man you are. You’re not him. You’re better.”
And just like that, Bo Sinclair—the cocky mechanic, the wolf in sheep’s clothing—felt small. Felt seen.
He didn’t answer right away. He stood up, wiped his hands on an old rag, and walked over to you slowly, as if approaching something holy. Then he cupped your face in his calloused hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks. He stared into your eyes with a softness you rarely saw—vulnerable, bare, aching.
“Why... why the hell would you wanna have a baby with someone like me?” he asked, voice almost breaking. “You could pick anyone. Anyone cleaner. Safer.”
You grabbed his wrists, tears welling in your eyes. “Because I love you. Because no one would fight harder to protect their family than you. And because if we made a baby together… I know they’d grow up with love. And strength. And someone who would burn the world down for them if they had to.”
His mouth parted. He wanted to argue. Wanted to keep building that wall between him and the future. But he couldn’t. Not when your faith in him burned brighter than all his doubts.
So instead of arguing, he leaned in and kissed you—slow, reverent, his hands trembling against your skin.
He didn’t say “yes” in so many words. He just started acting like a man who wanted it too.
You caught him, a week later, quietly fixing up the empty guest room—patching holes in the walls, redoing the paint. He grumbled something about “just makin’ it less of a dump,” but you knew what he was doing.
One morning, he tossed a catalog onto the kitchen table—circled a page that showed old-fashioned wooden cribs. He started touching your stomach when he thought you were asleep. Pressing his warm palm over your belly like he could already feel something there. Like he was already trying to protect something that hadn’t even existed yet.
And the first time you begged—half-laughing, half-crying, curling against him in bed and whispering, “Please, Bo... I want your baby... I want you to give them to me...”—he growled softly and melted into you.
He whispered in your ear, “Alright, baby... let’s give you what you want. Let’s make us a little Sinclair.”
And he meant every single word.
It had been a strange few weeks.
You were tired all the time. Your appetite shifted—suddenly craving fried pickles at 2AM and hating the scent of Bo’s aftershave, which had never bothered you before. You brushed it off at first—maybe it was stress, or the heat, or maybe your body just felt off.
But then… one morning, as you stood in the dim yellow light of the Sinclair house’s bathroom, staring at a stick on the counter that screamed “PREGNANT”, your heart climbed into your throat.
You were carrying Bo’s child. You laughed, cried, sat on the floor in shock. And then you just sat there, pressing your hand gently to your stomach, whispering, “Hey there, baby… guess it’s time to tell your dad.”
Bo was in the garage, as usual—shirtless, grease-stained, humming something low under his breath as he tinkered under the hood of a rusted-out car. You stood in the doorway, hands curled tightly around your back pocket where the test was hidden, heart pounding like a drum. You watched him for a second, just… absorbing the moment.
He always looked so wild and put together at once. So much fire in his bones, and yet there he was, gently tightening bolts, the curve of his back strong and steady, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
He glanced up and grinned when he saw you. “Hey, baby. You look flushed. You alright?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Then walked forward slowly, your voice soft. “Bo… I need to tell you something.”
He blinked, straightened up, wiped his hands with a rag. “You okay?”
You nodded. Your voice trembled. “I… I’m pregnant.”
Bo just stared at you. His expression didn’t move. His fingers clenched the rag tighter, the grease soaking into his palms.
“I took a test. A few. They're all positive. I’m… I’m gonna have your baby, Bo.”
He stepped back like the words physically hit him. Like they echoed straight into the deepest part of his soul.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly, hoarse.
You nodded again, smiling through tears. “We did it. You did it. We’re gonna have a baby.”
For a moment, he was utterly still. You thought—maybe he’d panic. Maybe he’d shut down. Maybe he'd break into that cocky sarcasm he used when emotions got too big for him to handle.
He walked over to you like a man in a dream, rough fingers trembling as he reached for your stomach, barely touching it like it was made of glass. His hands splayed wide, cupping the soft curve that wasn’t even showing yet.
And then his eyes—his goddamn eyes—got glassy. Red at the edges. Shining like he’d been punched straight in the heart.
“You’re serious?” he whispered. “There’s really... there’s really a little piece of me in there?”
You reached for his hand and pressed it flat against you. “Yeah, Bo. There is.”
He made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and suddenly crushed you to his chest. He held you like you were the last precious thing on earth. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, the other resting protectively over your belly. And for the first time in a long time, Bo Sinclair shook—not with rage, not with fear—but with love.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ try,” he whispered, over and over. “I swear to God, I’m gonna try. I’m gonna be better than he ever was. I ain’t gonna let this kid grow up the way we did. I swear it, baby.”
You buried your face in his chest, tears soaking his skin.
“I know you will,” you whispered back. “You already are.”
After that Bo becomes fiercely protective—almost feral about it. You so much as slip on a step, and he’s cursing the stairs and demanding to carry you everywhere. He finishes the nursery he had started months ago, painting stars on the ceiling and carving the baby’s name into a wooden cradle he made himself (once you pick one).
He becomes unusually quiet sometimes, just lying beside you with his hand on your stomach, whispering promises to the baby. But he’s also proud—in his Bo way. Smirking and bragging to Lester, “Yeah, well, I knocked up the hottest damn thing this side of the county. My kid’s gonna be a fuckin’ legend.”
When you feel the first kick, he cries. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face as he holds your belly like a sacred thing.
He never thought he’d get this.
Bo Sinclair will fight the world to protect the family he never thought he deserved—but somehow found anyway.
You never expected it to come out the way it did.
The words had been brewing for months—maybe even years. Each time you saw a baby in a movie or passed a family with a stroller, a pang pulled at your chest. You and Lester had been married for a while now. The wild chaos of Ambrose had quieted around you, and life with him had settled into a strange, beautiful routine. The two of you made your own kind of peace—your own kind of love.
So when you blurted it out—“Lester, I want a baby. Our baby. Please…”—it came out in a shaky whisper, almost like a prayer.
Lester froze. His boot scuffed against the dirt, hands still sticky from whatever roadkill he'd just finished hauling. He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right.
“A... a what now?” he asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.
You stepped closer, your eyes wide and vulnerable. “I mean it. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I want a family with you, Les. I want our child. I want to raise them right, with love. With you.”
The smile dropped off his face.
There was a long, soul-splitting silence as he looked at you. Really looked. You could almost see the gears turning in his head—the pain behind his eyes, the memories he never talked about. Growing up with abuse. With neglect. Feeling like the forgotten Sinclair, the one shoved into the back seat while his brothers got all the attention (in their own twisted ways).
You’d seen glimpses of the man beneath the dirt-streaked cheeks and lopsided grin. The man who brought you wildflowers every week. Who patched up your clothes by hand. Who kissed your forehead every morning like it was holy.
Now, that man looked like he was on the verge of breaking.
“You really think...” he murmured, his voice barely a rasp, “...that I could be someone’s dad?”
You didn’t hesitate. “You’d be the best damn father I could imagine.”
His face crumpled. Not all at once—just slowly, like a dam giving way. His knees buckled, and he sat right there in the grass, running a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grime as he laughed bitterly through tears.
“I always thought… if I ever had a kid, they’d end up hating me. Thought I’d mess ’em up. Thought they’d deserve better than me.”
You dropped down beside him, grabbing his hand. “They’d have love, Lester. That’s what they’d have. And you’d protect them like you protect me. You’d show them what survival means. What being real means.”
Lester stared at your joined hands. For a while, he didn’t speak—just gripped your fingers like they were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
Finally, he whispered, “Alright… we’ll try. If you really want this, darlin’... we’ll try.”
After that night, something in Lester shifted.
He started coming home earlier. He’d disappear into the shed, whittling tiny animals out of wood, then bashfully present them to you with a crooked smile and red cheeks. You’d find him sitting in the truck, staring at your picture with his hand resting on your side of the seat, lost in thought.
He cleaned up more. Tried to quit smoking (even if he cursed every step of the way). Bought books on parenting from a thrift store—even though he’d never admit it. And when you came to him again, a few weeks later, breathless and desperate from sheer baby fever, begging for it, nearly trembling with longing—he didn’t hesitate this time.
He kissed you so softly you thought your heart might crack.
That night, under a sky full of stars, he made love to you like he was giving you every piece of his soul. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.
He whispered into your skin, “I hope they got your smile… but maybe my laugh. And eyes like yours. The kind that see everything.”
He’d do it all for you.For the child you’d bring into this world.
For the future he never thought he deserved—until you gave it to him.
You wake up nauseous for the fourth morning in a row. Your chest is sore. You’re tired in a way that’s not just fatigue—it’s different. You know your body, and this feels… like something new is blooming inside you.
You wait until the test confirms it. Two pink lines. Bold. Undeniable.
Your hands shake. Your heart thunders. You sit there in the bathroom with the little test in your hand, whispering, “Oh my god… I’m pregnant…”
Your first instinct is to tell him. But a flicker of fear sneaks in. You know how Lester is—emotional, insecure, vulnerable beneath his carefree shell. What if he panics? What if he doesn’t believe it? What if he thinks he’ll mess it up?
But then you remember how he held you when you first asked. The look in his eyes when he whispered “We’ll try.”
So you plan it carefully. You make his favorite meal—fried catfish, cornbread, and that weird butterscotch pie he always swears he doesn’t like but devours anyway. You light a candle. You even set the table.
When he walks in, he knows something’s up. He squints suspiciously at you, grinning. “Alright, darlin’, what’s all this? Did I forget an anniversary or somethin’?”
You shake your head and slide a tiny box across the table.
Inside: a simple, hand-painted pacifier. And a tiny note that reads:
“Coming soon... Baby Sinclair. ETA: 9 months.”
Then his hands start shaking.
He looks up at you, and for a second—just a split second—you swear you see the little boy he once was. The one who never thought he’d get a happy ending. The one who slept in the barn sometimes because the house didn’t feel safe. The one who never imagined anyone would want to build a family with him.
“…You’re serious?” he whispers, his voice cracking.
You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m pregnant, Lester. You’re gonna be a dad.”
He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half sob—and stumbles back into his chair, hands over his face.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, over and over, as if trying to convince himself it’s real. “Holy shit, we did it. We really did it.”
Then he’s on you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed into your stomach like he’s already trying to hear the baby. His tears soak into your shirt.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says, fiercely, desperately. “Both of you. I swear to God, I’ll work harder, I’ll keep ya safe, I’ll… I’ll be better. I’ll be good.”
You cradle his head, running your fingers through his messy hair.
It’s a quiet evening when you finally gather the courage to say it.
Carrie is sitting at the edge of the bed, brushing out her strawberry-blonde hair with soft, methodical strokes, humming a lullaby that echoes faintly from some forgotten childhood. The lamp casts a golden halo around her, and in that moment, she looks so gentle, so peaceful, that the words well up and spill from your lips before you can stop them.
"Carrie… I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. I want to have a baby. With you."
The brush falls from her hand, clattering against the hardwood floor.
Her body goes rigid. She turns her head slowly, her wide, delicate eyes shining with something unreadable—shock, fear, hope—all blending into one.
"A… a baby?" she whispers, as if afraid the very word might shatter something inside her.
You nod, moving to sit beside her. You reach for her hands, and she lets you take them, though they’re trembling. Her eyes are locked on yours, searching, desperately trying to believe what you’re saying is real.
"With me? You’d want… a baby with someone like me?"
The weight in her voice stabs at your heart. You know what she’s thinking—what she’s been taught to believe all her life. That she’s cursed. That she’s unnatural. That someone like her shouldn’t be a wife, much less a mother.
You cup her cheeks and bring your forehead to hers. “Yes, you. Only you. I want to see your eyes in our baby. I want to hold something we made together. A family, Carrie. Our family.”
And with that, something inside her breaks—not painfully, but like a floodgate. She collapses into your arms, sobbing softly into your chest, as if releasing a lifetime of fear, shame, and loneliness.
Later that night, she speaks in the dark while you're holding each other in bed.
"I used to dream about it, sometimes. A little girl… with freckles. I’d braid her hair and teach her songs. But I thought that dream had to die with everything else..."
You kiss her hair and whisper, “That dream’s still alive. You’re allowed to want this, Carrie.”
Over the following days, something changes in her—subtle at first. She begins to touch her stomach absentmindedly when she's daydreaming. She visits the old nursery aisle at the general store and stares at the soft toys and onesies, barely breathing.
She starts sewing. Simple things at first—little booties, a blanket. She tells you it’s “just for fun,” but you catch her levitating the needle with her powers, stitching the shape of a tiny heart into the fabric. It glows faintly when she thinks you're not looking.
And then one night, your desire for it spills out of you, raw and aching.
"Carrie… I need this. I want to carry your baby. I want to give it your light, your heart. I want you to be someone’s mother. Please…” Your voice trembles. You didn’t mean to beg, but now that you have, you can’t stop.
She’s stunned silent at first, staring at you as tears run freely down your cheeks. You barely notice the soft shimmer of telekinetic energy that hums in the air around you—floating dust particles caught mid-air like stars frozen in time.
Then she presses her lips to yours, tender and reverent, her body warm and trembling.
"Okay," she whispers, barely a breath. "Let’s try. Let’s make our little miracle."
After that, every moment is sacred to her. She holds you like glass, kisses you with a reverence that makes your heart ache. When you finally begin trying, it’s nothing short of ethereal—the room filled with flickering candlelight, her powers humming faintly like a lullaby beneath your skin. Her touch is slow, patient, like she’s carving the moment into her soul.
She whispers your name like a prayer, over and over, as you make love. Tells you she believes. That she finally sees a future not written in fire or blood—but in soft blankets, warm bottles, lullabies, and love.
Carrie White doesn’t just agree to become a mother. She becomes a vessel for every ounce of hope she thought she lost—and for the first time in her life, she chooses her future.
And she chooses it with you.
Carrie White is pregnant.
Carrie is quieter than usual. She stays curled up in your shared bed a little longer each morning. Her appetite changes—foods she used to love now make her nauseous, and she craves the strangest combinations. You catch her staring into space, one hand absently over her belly, her expression unreadable.
At first, you chalk it up to nerves. Trying can be emotionally taxing, after all. But one night, she doesn’t come to bed right away.
You find her in the bathroom, the light low, her knees tucked under her in front of the sink. Her nightgown is wrinkled and damp with tears, and she’s holding something in her hands.
Her hands are shaking when she turns to look at you, eyes glossy, terrified and hopeful all at once.
“I… I think it’s positive.”
She says it like a confession. Like the words might make the floor collapse under her if she says them too loud. But she holds the test out to you, and the double lines are clear. Undeniable. Real.
You kneel in front of her slowly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.
“Carrie…” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “You’re pregnant?”
She nods, lip trembling. Her powers stir faintly in the air—curling around her like a warm breeze. The water in the pipes hums. The lights flicker once, like even the world is holding its breath.
“We’re gonna have a baby?” you ask again, your voice trembling with disbelief and awe.
This time, she manages a smile—watery, fragile, but radiant.
You don’t remember moving, but suddenly your arms are around her, both of you crying and laughing at once. You kiss her face over and over, your hands cradling her stomach like it’s already holding the future.
You whisper against her hair:
“You did it… we did it. You’re going to be a mom. My god, Carrie… we’re going to have our baby.”
Carrie breaks down, sobbing into your chest—not from fear, but from overwhelming emotion. For the first time in her life, she is wanted, and now she’s the start of something even more: a life that you both made.
You carry her to bed like she’s precious, tucking her in and lying beside her with your hand over her belly. She falls asleep in your arms, the tiniest smile on her lips.
From that day on, everything changes.
You start collecting books on pregnancy and baby names. Carrie reads them slowly, sometimes out loud to the bump as if the baby can already hear her. You watch her body change with awe and tenderness—her face glowing, her hands always resting on her growing belly protectively.
She talks to the baby every day. Tells them stories. Hums lullabies. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, her powers pulse softly—wrapping her, and you, and the baby in a faint golden shimmer that almost feels like a blessing.
Carrie was once told she could never have something good.
But now, with your love, her strength, and a little life growing between you, she knows:
This is good. This is hers. This is real.
