Part 2 of 'all that i'm gaining is all that you've lost'. You can read this without having read that first, but you'll understand it better if you have.


He lies there, completely still. He's flat on his back, staring at the ceiling of the loft as he listens to the steady rise and fall of Sylvie's breathing beside him.

He's awake, and she's asleep, and that sort of seems unfair somehow.

And okay, so, what Kelly really wants to know is why he is the one awake at the ass crack of dawn while his very pregnant girlfriend is sound asleep. And why this has become a recurring thing for them lately. Aren't pregnant women supposed to get shit sleep or something? At least, that's what he's read everywhere—online and in all of Sylvie's pregnancy books.

Yes, he reads everything she reads—devours it, honestly—because he cares about her and their kid that she's growing, and he wants to actually understand everything that's happening instead of just fumbling his way through it.

And he has the same app on his phone that she does. It's not weird or anything. He finds it all fascinating. How everything can change so quickly from week to week. But his main motivation for keeping up with it? He likes the way Sylvie gets this ridiculously bright smile on her face when he prattles off something he read on the app about where they are in the development that week.

He runs his hand over his head then and blows out his breath. The early morning light has started to cut through the curtains, making patterns on the walls. Or maybe he has lost his damn mind. There's nothing actually there, and he is delirious. That is also a strong possibility. He's on hour four of no sleep, by his own estimation.

He knows the exact reason for his sleeplessness tonight—this morning? Whatever—and for the past couple of months, really. It's the damn pregnancy pillow Sylvie is so in love with. That thing has been the bane of his life since the moment she got it.

Kelly barely tolerates the thing and has seriously, seriously considered taking it outside to torch it.

All right, fine. That's a bald-faced lie.

It's true that he hates the damn thing. It's this massive—oversized, that's the word used on the packaging, he remembers—U-shaped thing that is genuinely bigger than she is. It takes up more than three-quarters of their bed. Leaving him with this tiny space on the edge that is never enough.

But as much as he gripes about it, he knows he'll put up with it. Because Sylvie's sleep has been infinitely better since she got the damn thing. Her mood is bad enough when she doesn't get enough sleep normally.

Add in the fact that she's seven months pregnant and uncomfortable All The Time? Yeah, he'd rather not. And anything he does to that damn pillow will just piss her off.

So he allows it. He snorts and Sylvie stirs. Shit. He holds his breath until he hears her breathing even out before letting his own out again. He acts like he has any say in the matter. As if he doesn't just do whatever Sylvie wants when it comes to this pregnancy—and their daily life, if he's being completely honest. Because it's her body, and she's the one going through it. And really, as he sees it, his job is just to make sure she's as comfortable as possible through the whole thing.

He just... he never thought he would be jealous of a fucking pillow. Like ever.

Because that's what it all comes down to, really. The reason he hates it so much. The thing is so massive, and Sylvie's so tiny in comparison, she's practically swallowed by it, and it takes up that much space in their bed; he can't get close to her. And he has become accustomed to the feel of the solid warmth of her body pressed into his side after sharing a bed with her for the past two years.

Very carefully—so he doesn't wake her—Kelly rolls onto his side, so he's facing toward Sylvie. He watches her shoulders rise and fall slowly, her lips parted slightly in sleep. He reaches out, slides his hand under the shirt she's wearing to cup her bare hip. His gaze flickers down to her stomach then. The shift of the fabric has given him a clear view of the swell of her belly—which seems to have seriously ballooned in the last couple of weeks. He loves it, but he'll never admit that thought out loud to her, though. That's just asking for trouble.

He moves his hand, shifts the shirt further up her abdomen, and lays his palm flat on her belly. He feels something press against his palm—an indecipherable arm or a leg. He barks out a quick, quiet laugh at the sensation. He will never not be in awe, feeling their kid move inside her. He presses back gently and is met with what is clearly a foot against his palm in response this time. Then he watches as the foot moves along her stomach until it disappears by her belly button. And look, he has been fascinated with her changing body through every step of this pregnancy, but this is definitely his favorite part. The baby does a flip—this full body languid tumble, almost as if they are taking a long stretch at being woken up.

He has no clue how Sylvie manages to stay asleep through all this. She shifts just the slightest bit, and then her hand is covering his. He looks up at her then, expecting to find her awake and looking back at him. But, no, Sylvie is still dead to the world, and he thinks he even sees a little drool—she's that deep asleep.

When he feels another kick against his palm—almost like their kid is trying to remind him that they're still here too—Kelly smiles. He turns his gaze back to watch the slow rolling of Sylvie's stomach. After a moment, his eyes are drawn away from her stomach to the feel of her hand resting atop his.

Her left hand.

Her bare left hand.

And that is something he's been wanting to correct for a good long while now. He has a ring and everything. It's been burning a hole in his nightstand for a few weeks now. He hasn't been trying to hide it, really. Because he doesn't care all that much if she knows it's there.

This isn't a step he and Sylvie have actually discussed taking together yet. Perhaps, he thinks, that's something he should have done. They've both been working on using their words more instead of just assuming the other already knows what they're thinking or feeling.

And maybe he's gotten a little ahead of himself. But he knows this is something he wants with her and he saw the ring at a jeweler on Michigan Avenue, and he just knew, the second he saw the ring, that it was the right one. He wanted to do it all in the proper order this time around—have the ring then do the whole proposal thing.

The number of proposals shared between the two of them is too damn many, and he wants this to be the last for both of them.

He hasn't bothered to ask her father for his blessing or whatever, because that is not a tradition he agrees with, and Sylvie is a grown ass adult—she's her own person. Not anyone's property—capable of making her own decisions. He doesn't think she'd appreciate it if he did something like that anyway. Given their situation—the fact that they're already having a kid together—it all just seems entirely unnecessary. And, quite frankly, it wouldn't change a damn thing if her father said no. Besides, the man practically told him he approved the last time Kelly saw him.

But the thing is, he knows he's never going to be able to top anything as spontaneous as getting down on one knee and proposing in the middle of a fire scene. With Sylvie, that's just not possible, and something like that just isn't their style, anyhow.

But he still wanted to go to the effort of doing something nice—making the moment memorable for her. And he's tried to get that ring on her finger. Twice already, in fact.

The first time, he actually planned a date for them at this swanky restaurant she mentioned to Mikami she wanted to try—after he realized they haven't been on enough of them after more than two years together. His plan was never to propose in public, fuck that! He's not an idiot. But he spent the week prior thinking about what he was going to say and how he would ask her. But at the end of the night, Sylvie said she wasn't feeling well, that she just wanted to get home and into bed. The morning sickness that was supposed to ease off after the first trimester carried on all through the second trimester and was lingering into the third.

Then, a few nights later, while they were watching one of her HGTV shows that he just tunes out, he decided to go for it. He gave her his whole spiel. Even had the ring box out and open and everything before he realized she'd fallen asleep on him.

So he shelved the whole thing. For a couple of weeks, anyway. But he's kind of getting impatient.

"Sylvie?" He gets nothing from her in response. She doesn't even move. So he repeats her name again, a little louder this time. It's still quiet, though, but loud enough that if she was near the edge of wakefulness, it would make her stir.

Nothing.

Carefully, he pulls his hand out from under hers and leans over to his nightstand. He palms the ring box in his hand, turns it over a few times, contemplating, as he rolls back over.

"Babe?"

Good. Still nothing.

He opens the ring box then, holds the ring between his pointer finger and thumb, and turns it over in his hand as he inspects it. It looks no different from the last time he saw it. Not that he's expecting it would. He tosses the empty jewelry box to the end of the bed.

Kelly knows nothing about carats or clarity. There's hand engraving on the band itself, which is platinum, and the diamond is round; he understands that much. But the salesperson who helped him with the ring was using terms like pave and split-shank. And look, they are all words he understands when used on their own. He just has no clue what they mean when used in this setting.

He picks up her left hand, holding it in his own. He just wants to make sure it fits; he rationalizes with himself. But he took a ring from her jewelry box—that he knew was the right size— with him when he bought the ring, so that excuse doesn't really hold up. He's reasonably confident he got the sizing right. He strokes his thumb over her finger then, he tells himself he just wants to see what it looks like on her hand. If it's as perfect as he's been imagining. After a second, he slides the ring onto her third finger. It goes on perfectly.

Kelly has done a lot of stupid things in his life, but he thinks this is way up there. If she wakes up, he's screwed. He can make excuses a thousand different ways, but what it all comes down to is that he's dying to see the ring on her finger.

It's perfect. Just like he knew it would be.

Now that he's satisfied the desire to see the ring on her finger, he goes to remove it. At least, until he gathers up the courage to ask her properly again and it can stay there permanently. But just as he's about to slide the thing off her finger, she mumbles and shifts in her sleep, her hand sliding out of his grasp.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath.

With a big yawn, Sylvie stretches her arm high above her head. Yeah, he's not getting that ring off her finger now.

Maybe he can distract her enough that he can still slip it off before she notices. Though, that just seems like wishful thinking. She blinks a few times before her eyes focus on him, and she breaks out into a smile.

"Morning," she mumbles sleepily, her smile deepening. He doesn't verbally answer her, because he thinks if he does, he'll only draw suspicion to his own stupidity. So he leans over and drops his head, brushes his lips against her forehead instead.

"Oh," Sylvie lets out a sudden gasp.

Fuck. Kelly groans into her hair before he pulls back slowly, expecting she's seen what isn't supposed to be there, and asks—keeping his voice completely even—" What is it?"

"He's using my bladder as a trampoline." Sylvie laughs, and then she groans. "I really need to pee." Sylvie reaches out and touches her hand to his cheek. For a split second, he feels the cool metal of the band against his skin before she removes her hand, and he knows from the way she's looking at him, all light and smiling, that she still hasn't noticed. He liked the feeling, but now is not the time to focus on that.

He covers her hand with his and refuses to let go as she rolls away. It's something he's done enough—trying not to let her get away from him—that he doesn't think she'll look any further into it than him not wanting her to go. He thinks that just maybe, he might be able to slip the ring off as she pulls her hand away. But her hand slips from his grasp when she stands, and his hand flops down onto the bed without the damn ring, and Sylvie's watching him closely, her head cocked to the side.

He knows what she's expecting of him. She's looking at him like she can't believe he's letting her get away with the casual use of 'he' when talking about the baby. They've been carrying on like this for months now—the casual banter over the baby's sex.

Sylvie flopped back and forth on whether she wanted to know, and Kelly, of course, just went along with whatever she wanted. Now it's too late, and they have no choice other than to wait until the kid decides to get here. But they don't agree. Kelly just can't get past the image of a little girl in his head—a mini Sylvie, with her hair and eyes and nose. Sylvie is not so convinced and is sure they're having a boy.

They don't care either way and will be happy whatever the outcome, but when he reminded Sylvie, this all could have been avoided if she'd just made up her mind earlier. Well... that didn't go over so well.

Kelly flops onto his back with a groan and tries to cover it by pretending he's stretching. He doesn't want to play along right now, but if he doesn't play along, Sylvie will know something is up with him. She'll catch on sooner to the fact that he's bordering on freaking out because he is an idiot, and there is a ring on her finger that isn't supposed to be there yet!

But he does what is expected of him. He rolls back onto his side, so he's facing her, and props his head against his hand. He schools his face into an expression of casual amusement and says, "You mean she?"

He sees a flicker of delight pass over her features. That was the exact response she was expecting. Rolling her eyes, she leans over to smack at his chest with the palm of her hand.

Her left hand.

Sylvie still makes no acknowledgment of the ring that is now on her finger that wasn't there when she went to sleep. And as he watches her exit their bedroom, he shakes his head, not really believing it.

Is he seriously going to get away with this?

This isn't how he wanted it to go down. It was supposed to be romantic and planned, and not just bam! There's a ring!

He lays flat on his back again, throws an arm over his eyes then. He has a few minutes to come up with an idea—formulate a plan to try and distract her enough for him to get the ring back before she notices. But he doesn't get very far.

Suddenly, there's a clatter from the kitchen, and then he hears the sound of shattering ceramic. Instant fear settles in his chest, and he bolts upright. He's out of bed and across the room in a single stride. He throws open the door to their bedroom just as Sylvie shouts, "Kelly!" The panic making her voice sound almost shrill.

He doesn't know what happened, but his mind instantly jumps to the worst possible conclusion—that she is hurt or something has happened to the baby. He doesn't like the thought of that at all, so he picks up the pace.

When he rounds the corner and sees Sylvie standing in the kitchen, looking perfectly fine, if not a little shocked, all the fear and worry drain away. The pounding in his chest slows as he takes a few deep breaths.

Sylvie's standing in a pile of broken ceramic, and that's not good, but a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and he can't resist saying, "Maybe this is a sign you should give up the coffee," instead of, ya know, anything else he probably should've said at that moment.

The shocked expression on her face is gone, replaced by Sylvie narrowing her eyes into slits as she glares at him. Her face reads like she doesn't believe he has the audacity to say something like that to her. But then Sylvie's lips crinkle in that way that they do when she's trying not to laugh and fuck. It's adorable.

Unimpressed, she raises an eyebrow in his direction. "I have cut down to one cup a day. That's well within my doctor's recommendations." She folds her arms across her chest, and that just accentuates her bump. His own smile widens into a grin at the sight. "Do you really want to deal with me if I don't get my coffee in the morning?" she asks him sternly.

No. No, he does not, but he is a smart enough man to know not to admit that fact out loud to his hormonal pregnant girlfriend.

So he doesn't tell her that. Instead, he lets out a breath and shoots a look of mock affront in her direction. "Don't blame me when he comes out with two heads."

Sylvie simply scoffs and Kelly sighs, runs a hand over his face, then says, "Just don't move, okay?" He needs to get this mess cleaned up before she cuts herself on the broken pieces or something. That's the most important thing right now.

He grabs the dustpan and crouches down in front of her. Sylvie rocks back on her heels, her hands clasped behind her back. He can feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. When he looks up, she's smiling down at him. That's just not what he was expecting, and he wonders if she's the one that's lost her mind. But she's not smiling exactly. In fact, he thinks she looks like she's on the edge of tears. Happy tears, he hopes.

Nonetheless, he still hates to see it. He doesn't know what's caused this reaction, whether it's the ring or what he said about the baby. Or just hormones, he supposes.

And he's not an idiot. He knows what caused Sylvie to drop the mugs. She's incredibly steady handed. Needs to be, being a paramedic and all. She doesn't just drop cups—or much of anything, really. Not unless something startles her. He knows she's seen the ring. That has to be it. But she doesn't bring it up right away. So he plays dumb for a few moments more and focuses on cleaning up the mess. He can deal with everything else once that is done.

He feels her eyes following him as he walks to the trash can to dump the broken pieces. That's nothing new; he's used to her lingering gaze when he walks away from her. It isn't like he doesn't enjoy watching her retreating figure when the roles are reversed. He appreciates her looks, all right.

When he looks back at her, she's smirking at him, though. A genuine smile now that is too wide and totally teasing. "What?" he asks her, jutting his chin in her direction, just to see if she'll be the one to bring up what they both aren't talking about first.

She doesn't seem mad like he initially thought she might be. That's a good sign. Now he wonders how long they can go before one of them breaks and is the first to bring it up.

Sylvie holds her hand out for him to come back to her, even though the floor is safe for her to move again. Because she knows she can, and she knows he will. If she doesn't have to move—exert any energy—she won't, and he won't let her.

So he steps to her, and Sylvie places a hand on his chest, slides it up over his shoulder, does it again with her other hand, twining her fingers together behind his neck. Settling his hands on her waist, her body sways slightly as she tries to get closer to him. He thinks the way they're standing—the position of his hands high on her waist and hers behind his neck, the way they're smiling at each other, and the forced space between them—feels a helluva lot like a couple of middle schoolers at their first dance.

Well, excluding the beach ball sized protrusion keeping them apart.

He laughs at the ridiculousness just as Sylvie places her hand on the back of his head and then pulls his face down, so her mouth is on his, her lips moving slowly against his until he lets out a groan. When she pulls back, she's gazing up at him with this look that is completely enamored. No, he realizes, that's not exactly right. She's not looking at him directly; she's just about looking past him, level with his ear almost. His lips tick up, and he stretches his arms just that little bit further around her to lock his fingers together behind her back. He knows what she's doing. He felt her hands shift just the slightest bit as she pulled back.

She's looking at the ring.

"What?" he asks again, lifts one brow at her, like it's some sort of dare.

There's an almost giddy lilt to her voice when she gloats, "You said he."

Okay, that isn't what he was expecting her to say. But she's playing the same game he is; he knows that now.

He rolls his eyes and drops his hands from around her waist. "Don't get used to it." It was a slip of the tongue. He shakes his head. Nothing more.

He pushes away, then, to lean against the kitchen counter opposite her, plants his hands on either side of his body. Sylvie laughs, and god. He wants to laugh with her, but he can't. It's the principle of the thing. So he presses his lips into a fine line to stop himself. She must see the struggle on his face, though, because when she looks him in the eye, she only laughs harder.

Sylvie looks down then, and he notices she's openly looking at the ring now—her left hand is cradled in her right. Then, she turns away from him—as if this is all just a typical Sunday—and grabs down another two mugs to replace the ones that just shattered.

She hands him a mug. The coffee's black—the way he likes it. A stark contrast to the way she takes hers—all cream and sugar that it probably shouldn't even be called coffee anymore.

Kelly smiles around the rim of the cup. Sylvie looks back at him, leaning against the counter closest to her while she sips her own drink. They stand there, eyes locked together like they're both challenging the other to be the one to speak first. She shakes her head at him then, adds in a mischievous eye roll for good measure, but her eyes brighten.

When she says, "You're not getting this back, you know," he thinks his heart might just beat out of his chest.

And he knows he should say something—give her his whole prepared speech from a couple of weeks ago or whatever. Anything would be better than this silence that is dragging on for much too long. But his mind is blank, and he's forgotten most of what he was going to say. Everything he wanted to tell her that came with a proposal—just gone. What he does remember just doesn't feel adequate enough for her.

So, like an idiot, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, "Okay."

But he can see from the look on her face that his one word answer thrills through her, almost as if he gave her the whole ass speech he planned instead of just two lousy syllables.

Later, when she is straddling him—because that's the only position now she says doesn't make her feel like a beached whale or like she has a massive weight swinging from around her middle—when her fingers grab for purchase in the hair atop his head, he'll find the words he is looking for.

He'll murmur them against her skin as he presses open mouthed kisses into the warmth of her flesh everywhere he can reach with his mouth—how much he's in love with her—along her collarbone. How perfect they fit together—up the column of her neck. That she's the only one, he wants beside him for the rest of his days—across her jaw—while her back arches up into him with pleasure.

But for now, this is all they need.

And he thinks, for them, that almost seems fitting.