Chapter 133
Ivan
I asked Zander to let me use the bathroom. He didn't question it—he never does, not when I say it in that soft voice that tells him I need a moment to myself.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, breathing hard as if I've run a mile. For a long second, I can't bring myself to look at the mirror. But curiosity—no, dread—wins.
Slowly, I tug up my shirt.
There it is.
Not much, really. A swell, subtle, like I'd just eaten too much cake and forgotten to stop. It could pass for bloat, or a trick of bad lighting. But I know better.
Pregnant.
The word rings in my head like a tolling bell, heavy and undeniable.
I press my hand against the barely-there curve. It feels strange—too warm, too solid, too much like a secret that doesn't belong in my body.
I'm a man.
And I'm pregnant.
-
At first, all I feel is panic. My throat closes, and I stare at my reflection, trying to find the person I was before.
The model, with the perfect body.Instead, I see someone softer. My cheekbones sharper but my eyes wet, my jaw set but trembling. A man reshaped by love, and now—by life growing inside him.
Didn't I ask for this? Beg for it, even?
The memories come unbidden. The heat of Zander's hands gripping me, the wild desperation in my voice as I pleaded, "inside, don't pull out—give me a baby, give me yours." Over and over again. And he did. Again and again.
So why am I surprised? These are the consequences of my own actions.Why does my chest feel like it's caving in, torn between awe and terror?
Because it's real now.
This isn't just messy sheets and breathless whispers in the dark. This is flesh and blood. A child. Our child.
My emotions spin like a carousel gone mad. Fear—because my stomach will be cut open, because my body feels fragile in ways I've never let myself admit. Awe—because I can already picture a little hand curling around my finger.
Zander's child.
My child.
Our family.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it.
First steps on the polished floor of our home, Zander's laughter as he scoops them up before they fall. First days of school, me fussing over lunchboxes while Zander insists it's fine. High school arguments, college visits, maybe even one day… grandchildren.
The thought is so absurd I laugh through the tears streaking my cheeks. Me. A father. The world must be insane.
And then the doubts creep in.
Will Zander still want me when I'm bigger, when my body isn't mine anymore but a vessel? Will he see me as fragile, as breakable? What if something goes wrong?
The mirror offers no answers. Only my own wide eyes staring back at me, demanding I decide what I believe.
I close my eyes and think of him.
The way he calls me my prince, even when I'm a mess. The reverence in his touch when his hand slips unconsciously to my stomach, already claiming what's growing there. The way his voice shook when the doctor confirmed it—shock first, then fierce pride.
I lower my shirt and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. My reflection still looks strange—softer, unfamiliar—but it doesn't feel wrong anymore. It feels… like a beginning.
I press both hands to my stomach, whispering into the quiet:
"You're ours. You're mine too."
The words tremble, half sob, half promise. But as I say them, the fear quiets, replaced with something steadier.
And that's how Zander finds me a few minutes later, sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, my hands protectively cupped around the life we created. When he crouches beside me, dark eyes searching mine, I finally smile through the tears.
"I'm going to be a dad," I whisper.
And for the first time, saying it doesn't scare me.
He slides onto the floor next to me.
"We're going to be dads," he says, his voice low, steady, and warm as he wraps his arms around me.
The words vibrate through my chest, settling somewhere deep inside me where fear had been sitting just moments ago.
"I still can't believe it," I whisper, shaking my head, but I lean into him anyway.
"Mmhhnmmm," he hums, a sound of reassurance, his lips pressing to the crown of my head. This isn't the first time I've reacted like this—half terrified, half overwhelmed. But, like always, he knows what to do. He doesn't lecture me, doesn't tell me I'm being dramatic. He just holds me.