[private] if I lose myself tonight it'll be by your side, Thomas

[thomas]

and I'm the kind of love it hurts to look at, but once I was enough to make you try
now, I'm underneath the rubble, trying not to feel the trouble.

They.

It makes his heart spasm.

Yours.

And he lets his gaze drift back to the swell of her barrel, lets it linger there a beat longer. He can hear the way her expression softens in the tone of her voice. It fills him with glorious heat, pools color in his cheeks.

His.

Theirs.

He drags in a shuddering breath, tries desperately to breathe around the thunderstorm brewing in the cavern of his chest. It is pure, unfettered joy and he makes no effort to contain it. But he has never been one for theatrics, so it rolls out of him as breathless wonder. It manifests itself in an irregular heartbeat and a contented sigh when she finally sidles closer, lends him some of her warmth again. She brings her fine head to rest against the plain of his shoulder and her touch is just as sweet now as it had been the first time. And every time after that, too.

Or perhaps even sweeter, knowing that the life stirring in her belly is his, too. It is theirs. They are theirs. Her question elicits a softer smile and he turns his own head to press a kiss against the swell of her belly, wondering if he might feel them kick.

“Of course I will,” he murmurs into her skin. As if she had to ask.

And then he feels them as they press noses or tiny hooves against their mother’s belly and it kicks a sharp, delighted breath out of his chest. He presses his eyes closed, wondering what they’ll look like when they emerge. Wonders if they’ll be like him or if they’ll have galaxies in their skin like their mother.

Finally, he draws away, prompted by some sharp spike of anxiety, and meets her eye the best he can. “What if they’re like me?” he asks, quiet.

THOMAS

— and you don't care for me enough to cry —