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The dojo was quiet in the way only Fist of Justice headquarters could be—open air, warm light on the mats, incense curling toward the rafters. Gwynn sat across from you, posture perfectly straight, silently sipping tea.
She set your cup in front of you with a clinical sort of care.
“You look tired,” she observed. Not rude. Just factual.
“I’m six months pregnant,” you replied dryly. “I’m always tired.”
A faint, almost invisible twitch of her mouth.
“Fair.”
You eased yourself onto the cushion, rubbing your belly with a worried sigh. “…Gwynn?”
She raised a brow, waiting.
“Do you—um—know what Ivor was like as a baby?”
She blinked once. Slowly.
“…Why?”
You stared into your tea like it contained forbidden knowledge.
“Because I love him. And I love this baby. But I am also… a tiny person.” You gesture to your small frame. “And Ivor is built like a legendary titan. I’m scared this is going to be… an event.”
Gwynn stared at you for a long moment.
“…You think he was born that size.”
You flailed slightly. “I DON’T KNOW! I’ve never seen pictures! What if he WEREN’T normal-sized?!”
Gwynn inhaled, then set her cup down. “He was normal. Seven pounds," she spoke calmly, as if explaining something obvious. "Completely average."
Your shoulders sagged with relief. “…Oh thank god.”
Gwynn tilted her head, considering you. “The baby may look large on you,” she added. “But that’s because you’re… compact.”
You squinted at her. “Are you calling me short?”
“I’m calling you not Ivor,” she replied bluntly. “Which is everyone.”
You couldn’t argue with that. But then your brain circled back.
“So… how did he get that huge?”
Gwynn took a slow sip.
“No idea. You remember how large our mother is.” She paused.
That was true. You remember when you first met their parents during the holidays. Their mother, tall and broad-shouldered, and just as big as your husband. “Is your mother bigger than Ivor?”
Gwynn took a sip from her cup and shrugged. “They might be comparable, but I think Ivor may have a couple inches on her.”
Your soul left your body. Before you could respond, a shadow blocked the sunlight.
Ivor approached, massive and gentle, towel over his shoulder, hair damp from training. His entire expression brightened when he saw you.
“My love,” he rumbled warmly, kneeling beside you. He kissed your cheek… then your lips… then your belly. “Are you comfortable? Do you need water? A cushion? Another cushion?”
He placed his giant hand under your elbow to help you sit straighter.
Gwynn watched this silently, sipping her tea, expression unreadable—but something about her eyes said: I still don’t know how he managed to convince someone like you to marry him.
You took Ivor’s hand.
“We were just talking about you.”
He perked up. “Good things?”
“No,” Gwynn deadpanned.
You ignored her. “About what you were like as a baby, and how big you were at birth.”
He blinked.
“…Small.”
“Define small,” Gwynn said without looking up.
He cupped his large hands vaguely.
“This big.”
You stared.
“That’s the size of a loaf of bread.”
“That is small,” he insisted.
You grabbed his face between your hands.
“Ivor, I don't know if you're aware, but you are the biggest man in Lumiose.”
He blinked, confused. “I am of perfectly normal height.”
Gwynn let out a tiny, nearly silent scoff—the aloof equivalent of rolling on the floor laughing.
“No, Ivor, you’re not,” you snorted. “You tower over literally everyone.”
Ivor frowned, genuinely perplexed.
“…Do I?”
“Yes!” you and Gwynn said simultaneously — though Gwynn’s tone was far more unimpressed.
Ivor looked thoughtful.
“…Strange. I never noticed.”
You laughed as Gwynn shook her head and muttered, "Typical."
Your laughter dissolved into a sigh as you rested your head on his shoulder. “I was asking Gwynn because—well—our baby is measuring a little big.”
Ivor’s expression softened instantly. He placed his huge hand over your belly.
“She’s strong,” he said, warm and fondly.
You hummed in agreement, covering his hand with yours. “I thought maybe the she would be born… you know…” You gestured to his form.
He recoiled slightly. “Oh no. Mother said I was a normal baby. Very small. Very soft.”
“Soft?” Gwynn murmured. “He was born punching.”
Ivor pretended not to hear her.
“So, she won’t be… colossal?” You asked.
“No,” Ivor said firmly, kissing your temple.
Gwynn added dryly, “Normal at birth. After that…we make no promises.”
You stuck out your tongue at her.
Ivor pulled you gently into his chest, warm and massive and careful.
“You have nothing to fear,” he murmured. “You are strong. Our child will be strong. And I will help with everything.”
Gwynn took another sip of tea, eyes flicking toward you both.
“…I suppose this is sweet,” she said with zero emotion.