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Taylor wakes slowly, the kind of lazy drifting that happens when sunlight is already slipping through the curtains but the bed is too comfortable to leave. The first thing she notices is warmth. Her husband is pressed close, his hand resting over the curve of her stomach like it belongs there. When she shifts, he tilts his head to look at her, a crooked little smile on his face.
"Good morning, Mrs. Healy-Swift-Hyphen-Whatever-We-Are," Matty announces, his voice raspy, far too theatrical and chipper for so early on a Sunday morning.
She groans, pulling the duvet up to her chin. "You sound like you’re about to sell me a used car."
"I’d sell you a baby name, if you’d just let me," he shoots back.
That gets her attention. Slowly, she rolls over onto her side, adjusting the fortress of pillows she’s started building around herself these past few weeks. Five months pregnant and already feeling like she’s smuggling a watermelon under her ribs, Taylor has developed a deep appreciation for strategic cushioning.
Matty, of course, ignores all spatial boundaries and drapes himself half across her stomach, resting his chin on her bump like it’s the world’s most natural pillow.
They’d decided months ago to leave the baby’s gender a surprise, something Taylor had secretly worried would drive Matty insane. But to her shock, he’s embraced it, claiming it adds “mystique” and gives him double the naming opportunities. Which, of course, means twice the arguing.
"Hi," he says, directing it not at her but at the bump. "It’s your father. The cool one. Not the one who insists on names like… what was it yesterday? Clover?"
Taylor gasps. "Clover is adorable!"
"Clover is a pony at a children’s petting zoo."
"It’s whimsical," she insists, smoothing her hand over his unruly curls. "I think our child deserves whimsy."
Matty tilts his head so he can look up at her, his eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that means he’s about to be unbearable. "And I think our child deserves gravitas." He says the word with an exaggerated, posh English accent, as if he’s auditioning for The Crown.
She snorts. "You literally wanted to name them Baudelaire."
"Strong choice," he argues. "Distinguished. Literary. Our kid would walk into nursery already cooler than everyone else."
"Or," she says sweetly, "our kid would walk into nursery and immediately get shoved off the slide."
"Character-building."
Taylor laughs, shaking her head. She’s learned that these debates aren’t really debates. They’re more like foreplay, in the most wholesome, domestic sense. The teasing, the pretending to be scandalised, the way Matty always leans in close after he says something outrageous, waiting for her reaction like a kid begging for applause.
Taylor props her chin on her hand, pretending to think very seriously. "Okay, new idea. Marigold."
Matty’s eyebrows shoot up. "That’s not a baby, that’s a candle scent."
"Excuse you, it’s beautiful and sunny and happy."
"It’s something you’d find in a fancy apothecary with incense sticks and overpriced tea."
"Which, for the record," Taylor says sweetly, "sounds exactly like where you’d hang out."
He pauses, then nods. "Fair point. Still no."
"Alright then," she says, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. "Since you’re so superior, oh wise name-giver, what’s your groundbreaking suggestion today?"
Matty sits up a little, clearing his throat like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. He gestures grandly with one hand. "For a girl… Matilda."
Taylor blinks. "Matilda?"
"Matilda."
It doesn’t sound like him. Not like the elaborate, brooding things he’s tossed out so far. She was expecting something like Ophelia or Persephone, not… Matilda. Classic, simple, sweet.
She narrows her eyes. "You’re tricking me."
"I’m not!" He looks too earnest. Suspiciously earnest. "You don’t like it?"
"I mean…" She hesitates. "It’s actually kind of… nice."
He beams, triumphant. "Ha! See? We’ve cracked the code." Then, of course, he ruins it. "Plus, we can nickname her Matty."
Taylor drops her head back against the pillow with a groan. "Oh my god."
"No, listen!" He’s already laughing at himself, collapsing dramatically against her shoulder. "Little Matty. Imagine it! Two Matty’s in the house. Chaos. Confusion."
"You’re serious?"
"Deadly." He grins into her collarbone. "If it’s a boy, though, even easier. Matthew. Done."
She bursts out laughing, full and unrestrained, her bump shaking with it. "Absolutely not. One Matty is already more than enough."
"More than enough?" He gasps, wounded. Then he grins. "Imagine multiples. A whole squadron."
"Terrifying."
"Glorious."
She pokes his side until he squirms. "You just want the baby named after you."
"Maybe." His grin is all teeth, unrepentant. "But tell me it wouldn’t be funny."
"It would be," she admits, giggling despite herself. "But no."
"Fine," he sighs, melodramatic as ever, flopping back beside her. "Reject my genius. Go ahead. Suggest another botanical fairy name, why don’t you."
Taylor bites back a smile. "Alright. How about… Juniper?"
He groans into his hands. "You’re birthing a child, not a woodland sprite."
"Junie for short. Cute, right?"
"Cute until she grows up and becomes a ruthless CEO. Can you picture a Juniper closing a billion-dollar deal? No. But a Baudelaire? Absolutely."
"Matty."
"What?"
"Stop trying to raise a tortured poet."
"Too late," he says, patting her stomach with exaggerated tenderness. "That ship has sailed. The gene pool’s already contaminated."
She bursts out laughing again, and he joins her, the two of them tangled in blankets and limbs and ridiculousness.
After the laughter fades, there’s a moment of quiet. Matty’s hand stays on her bump, fingers tapping absently like he’s drumming out a beat only he can hear. His gaze softens, losing the performative edge.
"You know," he says quietly, "whatever we end up calling them… they’re going to be brilliant. Just by existing."
Taylor’s throat tightens unexpectedly. She turns, pressing a kiss into his hair. "Yeah," she whispers. "They will."
For a while, they just lie there. The morning sunlight filters through the curtains, warm and lazy. The world feels small, contained, like everything important is right here in this bed, his laugh and the faint kicks she swears she can feel if she’s still enough.
Eventually, of course, he breaks the spell.
"I’m still campaigning for Matilda. It’s cute."
She groans. "You only want it for the nickname."
"Guilty."
"Well, we’ll see." She smirks, patting his chest. "But if you think I’m letting you name our son Matthew Healy Jr., you’re delusional."
"Worth a shot," he mutters, grinning anyway.
Taylor strokes her bump thoughtfully. "What about Birdie?"
Matty groans. "Here we go again with the woodland creature names."
"Birdie is sweet! It’s cheerful."
"It’s a name you give a parakeet."
Taylor smirks. "Better than a name you’d give a nineteenth-century philosopher."
Matty gasps, feigning deep offence. "You’re telling me Nietzsche Healy doesn’t roll off the tongue?"
She groans, laughing as she buries her face in his shoulder. "You’re unbearable."
He presses a kiss to her hair, his hand resting over the curve of her bump. "Maybe. But you’ll forgive me the second we meet them."
Annoyingly, she knows he’s right.
And with that, the debate continues—Juniper versus Baudelaire, whimsical versus pretentious, laughter spilling between them like music.
A lazy Sunday, a ridiculous argument, a future they can’t wait to meet.