For a long time, maybe close to a year, you said "I love you". As your lives went on, it became "love you". In the past couple months it because just "love". You think he's just busy and anxious, and he thinks you don't love him as much anymore. There's truth in both of your assumptions. "A divorcé," he once laughed, "isn't worth your time". You disagreed, you fought, and then you got over it. You've become accustomed to waking up in his arms, and deem yourself spoiled. He's become accustomed to your coy little smiles in the hallway and deems himself the luckiest man in the world. One day, it all changes. He's leaning against the wall, laughing with Cuddy, bearing the same boyish grin that you fell in love with. There's something different though. The look he wears in his eyes is the one he reserves for you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you turn on your heel and walk, head down, out of the hallway, to the elevator, out of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and home. Sitting on your floor, tears staining your soft cheeks, you hold in your hands the only proof of your love: the sonogram of your unborn child. A sharp knock on your door alerts you of his presence, but you ignore him, and he knows it. "Allison," he pleads, resting his head against the door. "Allison, please open the door." Shaking your head, you curl up in a ball on the floor. "Allison," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "I love you". Your heart stops beating for a second, and your breath leaves your body in a rush. Pulling yourself up unsteadily, you open the door and pull him into your arms, pressing your lips to his desperately. He smiles through your kiss and breathes new life into your body. Placing a full palm on your stomach, he presses his forehead to yours. "I love you, Allison," he whispers. You smile.
"I love you too, James".