Chapter 21
Jack
I look at the other man across from me in the store.
He's got that tired-but-proud expression I've only ever seen on new dads. He's bouncing a squealing toddler on his hip while his omega debates between three nearly identical pastel onesies like it's a life-or-death decision. The guy catches me staring and sends me a knowing smile.
I smile back.
…And immediately regret it, because—oh. That's us. That's how people see Ciel and me together.
The thought makes something coil in my chest, tight and unfamiliar.
We left the hospital an hour ago—routine check-up. Everything's fine. Healthy baby, strong heartbeat. And the way Ciel lit up when he heard it again? Yeah. That did something to me I'm not ready to unpack.
Seven months.
That's what the doctor said. Seven months, which apparently means it's time—time to start buying things. At least according to every app, article, and aggressively cheerful pamphlet they handed us at the clinic.
Ciel had been hesitant when I suggested it. He stood stiff at the entrance of the baby store like it was enemy territory. Arms crossed, scowl in place, ready to take on a stroller with his bare hands.
But look at him now.
He's standing in the sock aisle, holding up a pair of tiny knit booties like they're artifacts from some lost civilization. His brow furrows, lips pursed, robe sleeve slipping dangerously close to the display basket.
"They're so small," he mutters, voice soft.
"They're socks," I say. "Not quantum physics."
His head snaps up, glare cutting straight through me. "You don't get it. Look at them."
Before I can protest, he waves the socks under my nose. I lean down and squint dutifully.
"Uh-huh," I say seriously. "Socks for ants."
Ciel tosses them into the cart with unnecessary force. He's trying to look unimpressed, but the tips of his ears are pink.
I grin.
We move on.
He hovers in front of a display of mobiles next, eyes softening as plush whales and stars dangle overhead. His hand lifts, hovers like he wants to touch but doesn't dare.
"Which one?" I ask casually, pretending not to notice the tenderness in his face.
He startles. "None. They're all ugly." Then, after a pause, he points. "Except… maybe that one."
The one with tiny rabbits floating in hot air balloons.
"Not ugly," I repeat solemnly. "High praise indeed."
He blushes and looks away, but I don't give him the chance to escape. I grab it off the hook and toss it in the cart.
"Wait—what are you doing?"
"You pointed. Pointing counts."
"That's not how shopping works!"
"It's exactly how shopping works."
We bicker like that all the way down the aisle until a passing couple gives us the oh, new parents smile. I feel the twist in my chest again, but this time it's sharper.
Because for a second, it almost feels true.
We hit the crib section next, and Ciel freezes like he's stumbled into a dragon's den. His hand grips the display rail, eyes darting across the price tags like he's calculating how many organs he could sell on the black market.
"They're… expensive," he says, voice thin.
"They're also not made of barbed wire," I point out, knocking on the wood. "Baby'll survive in one."
His eyes snap to me, doubtful. "I don't know which one's good."
"We'll get the safe one," I say simply. "With the bars. For… containment."
His jaw drops. "Containment?"
"You want him crawling out day one?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You are an idiot."
But he doesn't argue when I steer him toward a solid, boring, mid-range crib. He runs his fingers over the grain, inspecting like he's interrogating it.
"…Not ugly," he declares eventually.
I smirk. "Another win."
A female staff member walks by, stops beside me, and lowers her voice like she's sharing a secret. "Your omega is beautiful."
I blink.
Then preen like she just called me pretty.
I'm not even going to lie—it feels good.
"Yeah," I say, a little too quickly. "He is."
I know this is a sales tactic.
The soft lighting, the strategic compliments, the coupons that magically appear when you pause too long in front of the expensive cribs.
I know it's all a ploy to get us to spend more—
But I'm falling for it.
Hook, line, and overpriced stroller.
By the time we reach the bottle section, he's actually touching things. Stroking the fabric of a blanket. Holding up a set of pacifiers like he's pretending not to care but very much does.
I catch him smiling at a tiny pair of booties. Smiling. Like full-on soft grin, dimples and everything.
And—hell—I'm a goner.
"Those?" I ask, nodding at the booties. "They're cute."
"They're pointless," he says immediately, shoving them back onto the shelf like they insulted his intelligence. "Babies don't even walk."
"Uh-huh," I murmur. "So we're getting them?"
He glares. "We are not getting them."
Cut to: thirty minutes later, the booties are in our cart.
*
We leave with way more than we need. Diapers stacked like we're fortifying a bunker. Enough onesies to clothe a platoon. A baby monitor that could probably intercept government signals. And, yes, the overpriced stroller that folds with one hand.
I watch the store clerks load it all into the back of my truck. My bank account quietly commits ritual suicide.
But me? I'm weirdly… content.
"You didn't have to," Ciel says beside me, voice quieter now, softer.
"Please," I glance sideways at him. "I wanted to."
He fidgets, rubbing his arm. "It's… a lot."
"So's having a kid," I say.
That shuts him up.