Chapter 152 How Much I Want You
ADRIANA
The wedding dress was beautiful.
That was the first thing and the most relevant thing, and I should have just looked at it from the appropriate distance and accepted that it was beautiful and moved on. Instead, I let Hazel convince me that trying it on would be a good idea, which was how I ended up standing in a small, well-lit boutique while a very polite attendant tried different angles and different approaches and ultimately delivered the news with the particular careful diplomacy of someone who has had to say this before.
“This is our largest size in this style.”
I nodded. I thanked her. I got dressed again.
I left with Hazel’s arm through mine and her mouth already opening to say something reassuring, and I gave her a look that said I appreciated the intention but did not need it right now. She closed her mouth immediately, squeezing my arm instead.
We stopped at a market on the way back because I needed fruit, and the walk would do me good according to every piece of advice I had been given by every medical professional and well-meaning person in my vicinity.
I was filling my basket when a child appeared beside me. Small. Perhaps four.
“Mummy.” He tugged at his mother’s sleeve, pointing directly at me. “Why is this lady so fat? Her tummy looks like the teddy bear in my room.”
The mother’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession. She apologized, stumbling over her words and pulled him away.
I stood there holding a mango and felt something small and fragile inside me tilt sideways.
The rational part of my mind knew several things at once. That I was pregnant. That pregnancy meant change, meant expansion, meant a body doing exactly what it was meant to do. That a child’s words were not measured, not meant to wound.
That I was healthy. That the baby was healthy. That those were the things that mattered.
That part of my mind built its case carefully.
It did not help.
I put the mango back.
I left the market without telling Hazel, which I felt slightly guilty about but not guilty enough to stay. The walk home was longer than I expected. By the time I got back, my feet hurt, my back hurt, and there was a dull, persistent ache behind my ribs that had nothing to do with pregnancy.
I checked on Leo. He was asleep.
Then I went to my room, sat on the edge of the bed, and cried.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and tired and a little humiliating in its persistence. The kind of crying that feels like it’s leaking out of you rather than being chosen.
At some point, I lay down.
At some point after that, I slept.
I became aware of a hand in my hair.
Gentle. Slow. Moving through the strands in a way that was meant to soothe rather than wake.
I knew it was Elijah before I opened my eyes.
I moved away from his touch and toward the wall. It wasn’t a mature response but I didn't care right now.
“What did I do?” His voice was quiet, careful. “Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing. I want to be left alone.”
The bed shifted as he sat down.
“You’ve been alone all afternoon. Hazel told me you walked home by yourself.” A pause. “That’s not nothing, Adriana.”
“You haven’t been here.” The words came out flatter than I intended. “This whole week. I’ve barely seen you. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what I did or what changed or whether you—” I stopped, because saying it out loud made it feel more real. “Whether you find me repulsive now.”
“Whether I—” he started, then stopped. “Adriana.”
“You haven’t touched me,” I continued, because I’d already started and there was no clean way to stop. “You haven’t come to find me in the evenings. I know what I look like right now, I’m not confused about it, and I thought you were—” My voice faltered despite my best effort. “I thought you were staying away because of it.”
The silence stretched long enough that regret began to creep in.
Then the mattress shifted again and he lay down behind me.
His arm came around me, firm and certain, his hand settling flat against my stomach.
“There is no one else,” he said quietly. “There has never been anyone else.”
His voice was steady and slow. Like he needed me to take note of each word.
“I am in love with you,” he continued. “I got you pregnant, which means you are carrying my child. Everything about what you look like right now is something I am responsible for and overwhelmingly grateful for.” He exhaled a small breath.
“I’ve been absent because I’ve been trying to do something for you,” he added. “I should have told you instead of disappearing. That was wrong. I’m sorry.”
I swallowed.
“You’re not repulsed?” I asked, and I hated how small my voice sounded.
For a second, he didn’t answer.
Instead, his hand slid from my stomach, down my side, deliberate. He turned me gently, insistently, until I was facing him, even though I resisted for a moment before giving in.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
I did. There was something in his expression that made my chest tighten.
“Repulsed?” he repeated, quieter now, like the word itself offended him.
Then he took my hand and pressed it against his hardness, pressing insistently against his zipper.
I sucked in a small breath, startled more than anything else.
“This,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher in a way that felt unguarded, “is me being careful.”
His fingers tightened slightly around mine, holding it there for just a second longer before easing the pressure—not removing it, just… not pushing.
“I haven’t been touching you,” he continued, his forehead resting briefly against mine, “because I don’t trust myself to stop once I start.”
My pulse stuttered.
“You think I’ve been staying away because I don’t want you?” A quiet exhale that almost sounded like disbelief. “Adriana, I’ve been staying away because I want you too much.”
My throat felt tight.
“I don’t know where the line is anymore, between what’s safe for you and what I—” He stopped, jaw tightening briefly. “And I’m trying to get it right.”
The shame that had been sitting heavy in my chest shifted.
“I look—” I started.
“You look like you’re carrying my child,” he cut in, firm but not harsh. His hand came back to my stomach, spreading there protectively. “You look like something that belongs to me in a way I don’t even have language for. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world and your body is doing something amazing, you’re a Goddess.”
My eyes burned again, but for a different reason this time.
“You’re my baby penguin,” he added, quieter, a hint of warmth threading back into his voice. “Carrying my baby.”
A soft, involuntary laugh escaped me.
He watched it happen, like that had been the goal all along.
“Good,” he murmured.
He pulled me closer then, more gently this time, one hand at my back, the other still resting over my stomach, anchoring both of us.
I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to.
His touch was steady and warm and certain, and the tight, aching knot inside me slowly loosened its grip.
When I fell asleep again, it was with my face tucked into his chest, his hand moving absently over my back, his presence solid and unshaken.