I hesitate. Then, “Do you think they’ll be okay?”
“I think so. They both want it bad enough, and they’re working for it. Which means they love each other just as much as they always have. I think they’ll be fine. But if they’re not, we’ll deal with that too.”
I groan. “We’ll have to be those people that will have to decide who we’re going to hang out with and not tell the other one about it. But then they’ll find out anyway and make me feel guilty for being a bad friend. They can’t divorce, because it’ll inconvenience me. Oh, and also their whole family, but whatever.”
“Your heart is so big.”
“Right? I care too much.”
He grabs my wrist and tugs as he starts to roll away from me. I know what he wants, and I find it ridiculously endearing. For how big and intimidating he is, for how strong and protective, there is nothing Oliver Thompson loves more than to be spooned after sex. The fact that he’s lasted ten whole minutes is frankly a miracle, but since it’s pretty fucking awesome, you don’t hear me complaining about it.
It’s practiced, this. It’s one of those secrets of those who’ve been together for a long time. I know his body, every scar and freckle. I know the twist of his muscles, the way the hair on his chest and stomach feels underneath my touch. I know the way his hand fits into mine, his fingers thick and blunt and soft from that overpriced lotion he insists on using.
And we fit. We always have, even before we were us. There was something there, something arcing between us like lightning, always crawling along our skin. Maybe we didn’t know how to name it, didn’t know just how far it could go, but we knew. And we pushed and pulled, clawing our way to each other.
But we fit. Just like we do now. My front to his back, my legs curled up behind his. He’s warm, and my dick is pressed against his bare ass, but it’s not something yet. It will be, and probably soon (there’s only so much naked Otter I can stand before I have to try and get all up on that), but for now, it’s soft and quiet and good. My arm is over his hip, fingers trailing in the hairs on his stomach. My face is pressed against the back of his neck, and he smells good. Like sex and sweat and the soap we have at home.
He sighs, wiggling back until he’s pressed against me, no space left between us. And then he just melts, like he’s exactly where he wants to be and doesn’t plan on moving for the foreseeable future. He’s predictable, and I love him for it. For this.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
“Yes.” Then, “About what?”
“September.”
“Ah. Yeah. I guess. More anxious, maybe. And excited. And nervous. Like, not that vomity-nervous that I sometimes get, but a good kind of nervous. Okay, maybe a little vomity-nervous too, but that’s probably par for the course. I also get sweaty at really random times. Like, I’m not even thinking about the fact that we’re about to be dads, but then I get dad sweats, and then I start thinking about it and get vomity-nervous and—”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“Jerk.”
“No, seriously. I just made love to you—”
“Oh dear god.”
“—made love to you, and now we’re cuddling—”
“I married a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“—and now you’re talking about getting dad sweats and nervous vomiting. You remember what I said about us not being like Anna and Creed? I lied. We need help. Or rather, you need help.”
“That’s mean.”
“Well. It’s how I feel.”
“Because I’m here to validate your feelings. That was not in the wedding vows, if you’ll recall.”
He takes his hand in mine, our fingers intertwining. “That was a good day.”
He’s such a sap. “Yeah. It was.”
“I’m scared too.”
“I think that’s normal, right?”
He shrugs a little. “Probably. I just want—I need to be good at this.”
“Being a daddy?”