"Or you could move in sooner," I suggest, unable to bear the thought of two more months of separation. "We could get your stuff this weekend."
Micah laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us where we're pressed together. "Eager much?"
"Nine years, Micah," I remind him, nipping playfully at his earlobe. "I think we've waited long enough, don't you?"
His expression softens. "Yeah. We have."
As my knot gradually subsides, allowing us to separate physically, I pull him close against my side, unwilling to break contact completely. Our connection hums with contentment, no longer an alien presence but a welcome awareness, strengthening what was already there.
"We should tell our families," Micah says after a while, his head resting on my chest. "About us. About the baby."
The thought of sharing our news brings a smile to my face. "My mom is going to be insufferably smug. She's been telling me for years that you were special."
"My sister too," Micah admits with a rueful laugh. "Ellie's going to say 'I told you so' for the next decade at least."
"They saw what we couldn't," I acknowledge, running my fingers through his hair. "Or what I couldn't, anyway."
"Better late than never," he says, tilting his face up for a kiss that I gladly provide.
As the evening deepens around us, we talk about practical things—whose furniture to keep, how to arrange the second bedroom for the baby, whether Micah's commute will be manageable from my apartment. Ordinary, domestic conversations that should feel overwhelming given how quickly everything has changed, but instead feel right. Natural. Like we've been heading toward this all along.
And maybe we have been. Maybe every Friday night movie, every shared meal, every time I unconsciously prioritized Micah over everyone else in my life was leading us here—to this moment, this choice, this future we're building together.
Not because biology demanded it. Not because circumstances forced it. But because, when finally given the chance to see clearly, we chose each other. Just as we always have, in all the ways that matter.
Micah
"If you put one more medical textbook in that box, it's going to break through the floor and crush Mrs. Hendricks downstairs," Nick warns, eyeing the sagging cardboard with genuine concern.
I snort, but set the heavy pathophysiology reference aside. "Mrs. Hendricks is eighty-seven and plays death metal at three in the morning. She deserves what's coming to her."
Nick's laugh fills the apartment as he wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. One week since the pregnancy test, and I still get a little flutter every time he touches me casually like this, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
"You're terrible," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my neck right over the bond mark. "And I love it."
Our connection hums contentedly, no longer the raw, painful awareness that sent us both reeling in those first days. Amarasays that's normal—that bonds mature and stabilize, especially with regular contact.
And contact has been very regular since I started moving in yesterday.
"We should take a break," I suggest, leaning back into his solid warmth. "I've been unpacking for three hours, and if I have to decide where one more book goes while fighting off nausea, I might have an existential crisis."
"Can't have that." Nick turns me in his arms, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do when he's happy. "The baby needs a crisis-free environment."
My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach—still flat, though Amara says that will change soon enough. Two weeks pregnant. It still doesn't feel quite real, even with the morning sickness that's been my faithful companion for the past few days.
"The baby needs lunch," I correct him, my stomach choosing that moment to rumble loudly. "Growing a human is hungry work."
"On it." Nick presses a quick kiss to my lips before releasing me. "Grilled cheese? With the fancy cheese you like?"
"God, yes. And pickles."
Nick's nose wrinkles. "Already with the weird cravings?"
"Pickles and cheese is a perfectly normal combination," I defend, following him to the kitchen. "Pregnant or not."
"If you say so." He pulls ingredients from the refrigerator with practiced ease. This kitchen dance is familiar—we've cooked together hundreds of times as friends—but there's a new domesticity to it now, a sense of permanence that still catches me off guard.
I watch him move around the kitchen, this alpha who is somehow mine now, and marvel at how naturally we've slipped from friendship into this deeper thing. As if the border between the two was always permeable, just waiting for us to step across.