I snort. And there’s only one way to stop Poppy’s nonsense: to roll my dead weight on top of her, hiding my grin in the pillow as she thrashes and squeals.
* * *
Five years later
I wait until the doctor leaves the room and the door snaps shut before I lunge for the clipboard at the foot of the hospital bed.
“Whit.” Poppy prods me with her blanket covered foot. “You’re not supposed to look at his notes. Come on.”
And fine, no, I am not Poppy’s doctor. I shouldn’t hover over every single detail. But if she thinks I’m going to just sit back and relax while my wife—while my whole damnworld—gives birth to our child, without double checking the doctor’s work? She’s wrong. Very wrong. There’s too much at stake.
“Your blood pressure is a little high.”
An empty plastic cup bounces off my shoulder. “That’s all you, dumbass.”
Ugh.
Fine. Fine.
“I don’t like this,” I grumble, abandoning the clipboard and striding around the bed. When I sink toward the chair, Poppy grabs my hip and yanks me onto the bed. “Careful!”
I could have squashed her. Could have squashed themboth.Jesus Christ.
Except Poppy’s giggling, pushing me to lean back against the headboard and using my shoulder as a pillow. Her dark, silky hair tickles at my throat, and our chests rise and fall in time.
Heaven.
“You’re funny when you freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“I never get to see you like this, Whit. Losing your cool. Such a treat.” A slender hand curves over her belly, and I huff before covering it with my own.
This is not the noble affair I wanted it to be. I wanted my wife to feel safe; I wanted to swoop around the maternity ward like a superhero. Whipping the other doctors into line and fetching her an endless supply of ice chips. Making sure everything is perfect for her.
“Sorry,” I mutter into her hair. “I’m making this harder, aren’t I?”
“Never.” Poppy tangles our fingers together, hands still resting on her bump. “I’m so glad that you’re here. I’malwaysglad you’re here. Everything’s better with you.”
Ah, fuck.
Same. I feel exactly the same way. Before Poppy, all the colors in my life were muted; I barely registered tastes and smells. And now, with her at my side, everything is so vibrant and raw, and life is so beautiful that some days I almost can’t stand it.
I swallow, shifting against the thin mattress, and steal a glance at the closed door. Out in the corridor, the constant sounds of the hospital are muted: ringing phones, idle chatter, the squeak of dinner cart wheels.
“You know what’s supposed to help this process along?” I trail our joined hands over the hard curve of her belly. Her hospital gown is thin and soft, bunching beneath our wrists as our hands dip between her legs—
“Looks good,” the doctor clips out, marching through the door in his blue scrubs. He’s too busy frowning at another set of test results to see us snatch our hands back, both our faces guilty, but Poppy’s shoulders are shaking so much from silent laughter, I need to get off the bed. I stare out of the window, forcing away the constant arousal I feel near Poppy, and watch the city lights glitter instead.
“It’ll be a few hours yet,” the doctor’s saying. No shit. That’s crystal clear from the charts.
But I’m not going to be an ass about this. I’m not going to let my nerves take over, because my wife deserves better.
I shoot Poppy a reassuring smile, and she beams back, melting against the headboard.
“We’ll find ways to entertain ourselves,” she promises the doctor.
Ha.
I stare out of the window again, heart pounding.
When he leaves, this time I follow to the door. I raise an eyebrow, waiting for Poppy’s frantic nod before I spin the lock.
We’ll open it again soon, once I’ve turned her into a panting, pleading mess on this hospital bed. Once I’ve made her cheeks burn and her eyes spark with mischief.
“You sure about that, worrywart?” Poppy’s voice is thick with amusement.
I smirk and turn to face her. “Oh, yeah. Trust me—I’m a doctor.”
* * *