Aelin groaned loudly, rolling from her left side to her right before sighing exasperatedly.
Rowan had been silently watching her for an hour, growing more and more confused as time passed and she continued to flop back and forth, making her discomfort known all the while.
This wasn't the first time she'd taken longer than usual to fall asleep; whilst she usually refrained from getting in bed till the point of exhaustion and was out like a light, this was the third night in a row he'd noticed her struggling—her vocalization of her frustration was, however, new.
"Fireheart?" he said softly, hoping she wouldn't be mad at his interrupting her series of failed attempts to sink into unconsciousness.
"What?" she grumbled into the pillow, and he winced at the clear grumpiness in her tone.
"Is something bothering you? Is there anything I can do?"
She snapped her head to him immediately, facing him just long enough for him to see her scowl. "You've done enough."
"I'm sorry?"
She didn't respond again, and he mentally groaned at the prospect of the groveling to clear himself of whatever she had deemed him guilty of.
"Baby, can you at least tell me why you're mad so I don't do it again."
"I can't sleep." Her voice makes it clear this should be obvious.
"So you want to wait to talk about it till the morning?"
She picks up the decorative pillow she shoves onto the floor every night (which he then makes the bed with in the morning), and throws it in his direction without looking. "No, you bastard, I can't sleep and it's your fault."
"My fault?" he asks incredulously. "Fireheart, you've been trying to sleep on your side or on your back all night—you can only ever sleep on your stomach, it's no wonder you're still awake."
A beat, as though she's contemplating, but then he sees her press a hand to cover her yawn, and she snaps, "Well sleeping on your stomach is a risk factor for miscarriage so I can't do that, now, can I?"
"I…you…what? You're pregnant?" he whispers, as though saying it too loudly will wake him up from whatever dream this is.
"So it is your fault I can't sleep. And I was gonna do a cute reveal thing, too, on Sunday when we did dinner at Aedion's, but I'm just so goddamn tired and I have six more months of not being able to sleep and my feet already hurt because they're swollen and I don't want to hear it if—"
Rowan silences her with an embrace, tugging her close and pressing his lips to her neck, her jaw, her cheek, leaning into her neck. She responds by threading their fingers together, then pressing both of their hands to her stomach—and sure enough, while he hasn't noticed any difference in size, the soft skin doesn't give, stretched over the hardness of their baby.
"Six months?" he repeats, and she nods against him. "I didn't even notice you have any morning sickness."
"It's different for everyone, apparently. I had a decent bit of nausea but didn't throw up once—it was the dizziness and fatigue that gave it away."
He frowns, holding her tighter. "You didn't tell me you'd been feeling poorly."
"You literally didn't tell us you felt ill until you fainted when you had fucking appendicitis and almost died—you're not the poster child for sharing your burdens, either," she retaliates.
A grimace lands on his face fleetingly at the memory, but he can't say distracted for long when they're having a baby, a tiny human, Aelin is growing their baby right now.
"Hi baby," he whispers, stroking his hand along the skin of her abdomen.
He watches her throat move to swallow, but she doesn't say anything more, and it takes a second before he realizes it: "Are you—Fireheart, are you crying?" They'd been married six months, but were best friends for years before that—since her freshman year of high school (his senior) seven years prior; in that entire span of time, he'd seen her cry twice.
"No!" she replies instantly, but the wobble in her voice is unconvincing. "Your kid is crying, Whitethorn. I'm just the vessel." Another beat of silence, and her voice comes out at a higher pitch. "I wasn't hiding it from you. I just found out a week ago, and I wanted to wrap my head around it—it took longer than normal to notice, since I wasn't throwing up and my periods are never regular, but it's really better that way, right, because now we're out of the twelve week danger zone, so we can go ahead and tell everyone right away."
Aelin has always rambled when she's nervous, so he just hums in response, holding her tight to him and pressing more kisses to her shoulder. "I love you."
"I love you too." Her voice is quiet, but filled with contentment, and if that isn't the best sound in the world he doesn't know what is.
(which is a thought he has a week later, when he hears the baby's heartbeat for the first time during the ultrasound and tears pour down both their faces; and again, six months and a week later, when Hope Nehemia Whitethorn Galathynius's first cries come into the world and he's sobbing whist trying to keep his eyes open, not wanting to blink for fear of missing a second of her existence; and again seven months later when a beautiful green-eyed infant giggles "Dada" for the first time; and again, ten years later, one Yulemas morning when he, Aelin, and their kids are sprawled all across each other in their bed, and his wife and the four people they made together are full of laughter and song and he knows there is nothing more he could ask for.)
(But he's not there yet—now he's curled around his wife, happy as can be, without a clue his life will grow infinitely brighter, their world infinitely fuller, and this is only just the start—the most beautiful, perfect start.)
"I love you Fireheart, but I think I'm glad you can't sleep," he says playfully, and she laughs sleepily beside him, rubbing her hand over their little bean reflexively.
(And so it begins.)