This is good.
This is normal.
Or as normal as anything gets in this family.
"You look tired," Oliver says quietly.
I turn to face him. We haven't seen each other in person in three weeks I think. Our conversations have been limitedto phone calls—late nights when he's finishing his shift at the hotel, early mornings before the compound wakes up. He's been working double shifts for the past month, saving up for something he won't tell me about.
Oliver does this sometimes. Throws himself into work with single-minded focus, barely sleeping, barely eating, until he achieves whatever goal he's set for himself. Then he emerges, exhausted but satisfied, and returns to his normal schedule.
I've learned not to push.
"I'm fine," I say.
"You're pregnant."
"Shh." I glance around, but no one is close enough to hear. "We haven't told everyone yet."
"Sorry." He lowers his voice. "But seriously, Nell. You look exhausted. Are you sleeping?"
"Bruno won't let me do anything." I take a sip of my water. "He's been... protective."
"Protective how?"
"He tried to carry me down the stairs this morning."
Oliver chokes on his drink. "He what?"
"Carry me. Down the stairs. Because apparently stairs are dangerous for pregnant women."
"He's in a wheelchair."
"I pointed that out."
"What did he say?"
"That he would figure it out."
Oliver stares at me for a long moment. Then he laughs.
"I take back everything bad I ever said about him," Oliver says. "That's actually adorable."
"It's not adorable. It's insane."
"It's both." He grins. "The man can’t barely walk and he's trying to carry you down stairs. That's commitment."
I want to argue, but I can't.
Because Oliver is right.
It is commitment.
He touches my stomach constantly.
Not in a sexual way.
Just... touches it.