Chapter 2: The Weight of Us
Astrid's breath still came in shallow, uneven pulls against his collarbone, the tremor in her voice lingering like a bruise after her whispered confession. "What if I can't do it, Shane? What if I lose it completely in there, and I'm just... flailing, and I can't control any of it?"
He didn't answer with words at first. His palm traced the curve of her belly, slow and reverent, the way he'd done since the first scan revealed a heartbeat. Then his fingers found her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. The lamp behind him threw his face half into shadow, but his dark eyes were steady, warm.
"You won't be flailing," he said, his voice low and rough from the hours of shouting on the ice. "You'll be holding our daughter. And I'll be right there, holding you. That's all the control you need."
Her laugh came out broken, almost a sob. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple." He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, catching the wetness that had gathered there. "It's terrifying, but it's simple. You're the strongest person I know, Astrid. You argue with judges for a living. You've never lost a case you actually cared about." A smile tugged at his lips. "I've seen you make opposing counsel cry."
"I did not make him cry. He had allergies."
"Right. Allergies." He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between. "You're going to be an incredible mother. And I'm going to be right there the whole time. Whatever you need. Whatever you want."
She looked at him, really looked, and something in her chest loosened. The fear was still there, coiled beneath her ribs, but it had quieted. Shane had that effect on her, had had it since the first night he'd asked her out after a game, still in his gear, smelling like ice and sweat and something indefinably him.
"Kiss me," she whispered, and it came out more plea than command.
He didn't hesitate. His mouth met hers, soft at first, questioning, then deeper when she parted her lips against him. She tasted faintly of the mint tea she'd drunk before bed, and he tasted like the sports drink he'd downed on the bench, salt and sugar and victory. Her fingers curled into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he let her, his body shifting until he was half over her, careful, always careful of the weight of him pressing against her belly.
"Shane," she breathed against his mouth, and his name was a prayer, a demand, a request all at once.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her hair was mussed across the pillow, her cheeks flushed, and the silk nightgown she wore had ridden up over her thighs. The lamp light caught the swell of her belly, smooth and taut, and he thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. She was curvier now, softer in all the places she used to worry about, and he loved every inch of her more ferociously than he had ever loved anything on or off the ice.
"I've got you," he murmured, and lowered his mouth to her throat.
She arched beneath him, a soft sound escaping her lips. His hand slid down her side, over the swell of her hip, and she hitched her breath when his fingers found the edge of her nightgown. He was slow, achingly slow, drawing the silk up until it pooled around her ribs, leaving her bare beneath him.
"You're so beautiful," he said, and meant it, his voice thick with reverence.
"Don't look at me like that." Her hands came up to cover her breasts, modesty that belonged to a woman who had spent her whole life in suits and power heels, armor she wore against the world.
"Too late." He caught her wrists gently, drawing them away, pressing them to the mattress on either side of her head. "I'm always going to look at you like that. Get used to it."
She made a sound somewhere between a protest and a laugh, and then he lowered his head, his mouth closing over her nipple. She gasped, her back bowing off the mattress. He took his time, laving her with tongue and lips, then switching to the other side, his hands splayed over her belly, feeling the faint movement beneath his palms. Their daughter kicked, a firm, insistent thump against his fingers.
"She knows," he murmured against her skin.
"Knows what?"
"That you're happy." He lifted his head, his dark eyes finding hers. "She knows her mama's happy."
Astrid's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to deflect, to hide behind her usual armor of sharp wit and sharper words. But the truth of it was pressing against her, warm and insistent, the same way their daughter pressed against her ribs. She was happy. Terrified, yes. Overwhelmed, constantly. But happy. Happy in a way she had never known how to be before him.
She reached up, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging the man-bun loose so his black hair spilled around his face. "I love you," she said, and it came out raw, unguarded, the truest thing she'd said all night.
"I love you too." He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers, and she opened for him completely.
He drew back only to strip off his own hoodie and sweats, then came to her again, skin against skin, heat against heat. The length of him pressed against her thigh, hard and ready, and she reached down, curling her fingers around him. He hissed through his teeth, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
"Astrid." Her name was a plea, a prayer, barely a breath.
"Shh." She guided him, her legs falling open, her body already slick and aching for him. "I want you. I want this. Please."
He moved slowly, so slowly, easing into her with aching gentleness. She gasped at the fullness of him, the stretch, the perfect weight of his body covering hers. He held himself above her on his forearms, careful not to press against her belly, his hips rocking in a rhythm that felt like a tide.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice ragged.
"More than okay." She wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him deeper, and he groaned, his head dropping to the curve of her neck.
They moved together like that, slow and intimate, a rhythm built on years of knowing each other's bodies. She could feel the shift of their daughter between them, a subtle pressure, a reminder that she was never alone in this. Her hands roamed his back, his shoulders, the smooth strength of the muscles he worked so hard to maintain. He was so solid, so real, and she clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth.
"I'm not going to break," she whispered against his ear.
"I know." His thrusts deepened, just slightly, and she moaned, her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders. "But I'm going to take care of you anyway."
She came apart beneath him, a sharp gasp followed by a slow, shuddering release that rolled through her like a wave. He followed moments later, his body tensing above her, his breath ragged and broken against her throat. She held him through it, her arms wrapped around him, her legs still locked at his hips, keeping him close.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The city skyline glittered beyond the windows, indifferent and beautiful, and the lamp flickered as if in sympathy. Their daughter settled, a gentle movement against his hand where it had come to rest on her belly.
"See?" he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. "You're not flailing. You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
She laughed, soft and wet, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Shut up and hold me."
He grinned, easing onto his side, pulling her against him so her back curved against his chest, his palm splayed protectively over their daughter. "Anything you want, Counselor."
Dawn came slowly, a pale grey wash spreading across the ceiling before the city lights began to dim one by one beyond the windows. Astrid had drifted in and out of sleep, the comfortable weight of Shane's arm draped over her hip, his chest warm against her back. Their daughter had been quiet for hours, and Astrid was just beginning to surface into that murky space between dreaming and waking when the craving hit her.
It came on like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. She hadn't been thinking about food, hadn't even been properly awake, and then all at once she could think of nothing else. The specificity of it was almost cruel. She knew exactly what she needed, down to the brand and the texture and the temperature, and she knew, with the certainty of a woman whose body had been hijacked by a tiny tyrant, that she would not be able to think about anything else until she had it.
"Shane." She nudged him with her elbow. "Shane."
He grunted, pulling her closer, burying his face in her hair. "Mm. Five more minutes."
"There's no time." She tried to wiggle out of his grip, but he tightened his arm around her with the casual strength of a man who hauled two hundred pounds of hockey equipment around for a living. "I need you to get up."
"Need you to stay." He kissed the back of her neck, his voice rough with sleep and sex. "It's early. Come back to bed."
"I'm in bed." She pushed at his forearm, then gave up and lay still, glaring at the ceiling. The craving was building now, an urgent, almost painful pressure behind her sternum. "I need pickles."
"Mm. We have pickles."
"No. Not those pickles." She heard the whine in her own voice and hated it. She was a lawyer. She had argued cases before appellate judges without raising her voice. She had negotiated contracts worth millions. And here she was, on the verge of tears over a jar of pickles. "I need the spicy ones. The ones with the jalapeño in the brine. From that deli on Belmont."
Shane was quiet for a moment. Then he let out a long breath, and she felt him shift behind her, propping himself up on one elbow. She turned to look at him. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in every direction, and he was squinting at her with the expression he wore when he was doing math in his head. She loved him so much in that moment that it hurt, which did nothing to ease the pickle situation.
"The deli on Belmont," he repeated. "The one that's a thirty-minute drive."
"The one that's a thirty-minute drive," she confirmed.
"It's six in the morning."
"I know what time it is." She pressed her hand to her belly, and as if on cue, their daughter delivered a firm, insistent kick right beneath her palm. "Your daughter wants her pickles."
"Oh, so they're her pickles now."
"Everything I crave is her pickles. That's the rule." She fixed him with the look she used in court, the one that made opposing counsel fumble their notes. "Are you going to get your daughter her pickles or not?"
Shane stared at her for a long moment. Then he cracked a grin, slow and crooked, and she felt something in her chest turn over. "You know I can't say no to either of you." He swung his legs out of bed, padding naked across the floor. "Anything else? While I'm out?"
She considered this with the gravity the question deserved. "The salt and vinegar chips. The kettle ones. And a vanilla milkshake. But not from a place that also sells burgers. The milkshake has to be from a place that specializes in milkshakes."
"Right. Separate establishments." He was pulling on his sweats now, hopping on one foot, that absurdly endearing morning ritual.