Chapter 150 – Amara POV
The Mystery of My Stomach
I groaned, gripping the sink as another wave of nausea hit me like a rogue wave mid-ocean.
"Okay," I muttered, squinting at my pale reflection in the mirror. "What the hell did I eat this time?"
It wasn't the first time I'd woken up feeling like I'd licked the inside of a shoe. For the past few mornings, my stomach had decided it hated me and everything I put inside it. I blamed the new burger place Ethan and I had ordered from three nights ago. That spicy Avocado mayo haunted me in my dreams.
I rinsed my mouth and leaned over the sink, breathing slowly, waiting for the nausea to pass. After a few minutes, it faded—just enough for me to shuffle back into the bedroom like a ghost.
Ethan was still asleep, face buried in my pillow, shirtless, golden skin glowing in the early morning light. How someone could look that good at 6:30 a.m. was beyond me.
I climbed in beside him and poked his side gently.
He didn't stir.
I poked harder.
Still nothing.
"I might be dying," I whispered.
"Then don't wake me to witness it," he mumbled into the pillow.
I huffed. "I'm serious. I feel sick. Again. And this time I didn't eat five cupcakes or midnight ramen."
He groaned and rolled over, peeking at me through sleepy eyes. "Want me to take you to the doctor?"
I waved it off. "No, no. It's probably just a bug. Or maybe my stomach's just… tired of food."
Ethan sat up slightly, brushing hair from my face. "Tired of food? That doesn't sound like my Amara."
"Exactly. That's why I'm worried."
He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead like a dramatic soap opera husband. "You don't have a fever. Maybe it's just stress?"
"Maybe," I sighed, falling back against the pillows. "Or maybe I'm developing a sudden allergy to life."
Ethan chuckled. "Do you want ginger tea? Crackers? Hugs?"
"All of the above."
He kissed my cheek and climbed out of bed. "Then you, my dramatic little gremlin, shall be pampered."
I smiled as he padded off toward the kitchen, humming to himself. I closed my eyes again and listened to the sounds of him clinking cups and opening cabinets. He was the only man I knew who could turn making tea into an art.
While he played husband-of-the-year in the kitchen, I scrolled through my phone. I thought about searching "waking up nauseous every day," but I'd already done that yesterday—and the day before—and somehow the internet always found a way to scare me into believing I had anything from stomach ulcers to a rare tropical worm.
Nope. I wasn't doing that again.
When Ethan returned with a tray of tea, toast, and a tiny bowl of strawberries ("just in case your body wants options"), I felt a little better already.
"You're the best," I said, sipping the warm tea.
"I know."
He sat beside me, brushing his hand through my messy curls, watching me with that soft, adoring gaze he reserved just for me.
"You really don't want to go to the doctor?" he asked again.
I shook my head. "Let's wait a few more days. If I'm still queasy, I'll go. Promise."
Ethan didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Deal."
Later that morning, I tried to ignore the nausea and go about my day. I worked on a few emails, cleaned out the bookshelf, and even tried on a new dress Zariah had sent me—though I noticed it felt a little snug around the waist.
Great. Now I was sick and bloated.
At lunch, I devoured a plate of spicy fried rice with grilled chicken. For some reason, my appetite came roaring back like nothing ever happened. Ethan stared at me halfway through the meal like I'd grown a second head.
"Okay," he said, putting his fork down. "Are we just… not going to talk about the way you inhaled that?"
I shrugged. "It's called a recovery meal."
"Recovery from what? A boxing match?"
I grinned. "From my brush with death this morning."
He rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered.
That night, as we got ready for bed, I stared at myself in the mirror, hands pressed gently against my belly. I looked fine. I didn't feel sick anymore. Maybe it was just a weird bug after all. Or maybe I was just adjusting to married life, new routines, and all the overfeeding Ethan insisted on.
I slipped into bed beside him and sighed. "I hope tomorrow's better."
Ethan reached for me, wrapping his arm around my waist. "If not, I'll make tea and toast again."
"You're spoiling me."
"Always."
As the room went quiet and his breathing slowed, I lay awake a little longer, wondering why my body had felt so strange lately. But the idea of anything serious didn't cross my mind.
And pregnancy?
Not even a blip on the radar.