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Something had come between Annie and him.
Literally come between them.
And if she had to choose between them, he wasn’t entirely confident she would choose him.
Which was why he was already out of bed at 07:30 on a Saturday, while his wife was sound asleep with her preferred bed companion — her pregnancy pillow. A U-shaped, overstuffed monstrosity that took up more bed real estate than both of them combined.
River had woken shortly before seven, half-smothered by the pillow and clinging to a pathetic triangle of mattress. Annie, meanwhile, was fast asleep in her perfect little nest of cushions, wedges, and the enormous U-shaped creature she now treated like a life partner.
So he’d surrendered.
He’d kissed her shoulder, extricated his leg from beneath the pillow’s oppressive maternal curve, and escaped.
She didn’t stir. And he was glad — she needed the lie-in.
She’d been up three times in the night: the loo, leg cramp, and then because she’d become completely convinced the baby had hiccups.
River padded downstairs, the house soft and quiet in that rare, golden Saturday morning way.
He pottered — loaded the dishwasher, folded a stray cardigan of Annie’s, put a wash on. Normal domestic things he’d once been convinced he was incapable of.
Coffee in hand, he sat on the sofa and half-watched last night’s Ryder Cup highlights while scrolling through BBC News.
He wasn’t taking in either.
By eight-thirty he’d showered and changed into jeans and a soft T-shirt Annie liked a little too much (“dangerously good,” she’d once murmured). He pretended not to remember, which was a lie.
The house stayed quiet.
Good.
She needed the sleep.
Then came a faint shift of movement. The creak of the bathroom door. The shower.
He smiled without meaning to.
Right. Breakfast.
He reached for the cereal — poured the branflakes into her favourite bowl (the yellow one, because it “felt cheerful”) — then stopped himself before adding milk.
Because Annie was very clear about soggy breakfast foods right now.
Milk went on at the last second. Under supervision.
He set the bowl on the counter, reached for the fruit she liked slicing on top, and was just finishing when he heard her footsteps on the landing — slow, sleepy, familiar.
His mouth was already pulling into a smile he couldn’t help.
Then the door opened.
He looked up.
And forgot to breathe.
Annie stood in the doorway, hair in a messy bun, sleep-soft face, barefoot, blinking like a bewildered cat.
Wearing denim dungarees.
Over a red-and-white striped top that made her look like the world’s most adorable lighthouse keeper. The bump sat round and warm beneath the bib, the left strap slipping slightly off her shoulder in a way that should have been illegal.
She caught his expression instantly.
Raised a hand like a traffic officer.
“Do not say anything.”
River’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
No sound emerged.
“I’m serious,” she warned, pointing at him as sternly as someone in oversized maternity denim could. “Not one word, River.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he managed.
“You were thinking something.”
He absolutely was.
He was thinking she looked adorable.
He was thinking she looked like sunshine.
He was thinking he should sit down before he embarrassed himself.
“Good morning,” he said, coming around the breakfast bar to kiss her and give the bump a gentle pat.
“Good morning.” She kissed him back, quick and warm. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
“You didn’t really. And it’s fine. Can you eat?”
She nodded and hauled herself onto one of the bar stools at the island.
He slid the bowl of branflakes across to her.
She’d been very upset this week — very upset — that the expensive maternity leggings she’d bought had lasted her only six weeks. There had been long, emotional discussions about waistbands digging into her ribs, cutting into her bump, ruining her day. River had learned it was best not to have an opinion.
She looked up from her branflakes.
“You’re looking at me.”
He shrugged. “I’m always looking at you.”
She rolled her eyes on cue.
“Be honest. How do I look?”
“Like my heart rate just doubled and I don’t know why.”
“River.”
“Functional. You look… functional.”
That was a lie. Those dungarees were doing it for him.
Her face suggested functional was not the reassurance she was seeking, so he tried again — closer to the truth.
“You look bloody adorable, honey.”
“Adorable?” She looked down at herself like she couldn’t quite believe something the size and shape of her body right now could be described as adorable. His heart squeezed.
He nodded. “Absolutely adorable.”
Her eyes filled a bit — and he rushed on gently.
“Plus all the pockets… very practical. You won’t have to take a handbag out with you.”
She seemed to genuinely consider this.
“That’s true. I hadn’t thought about that.”
“You’re carrying enough.”
“I am carrying enough,” she said, pleased and faintly surprised that he’d said it out loud.
She finished her branflakes and pushed the bowl away with a sigh that told him she was maybe… fifteen percent less hungry.
Then she frowned at the counter.
“…I’m still hungry.”
He bit back a smile. “Bench?”
Her face softened instantly.
Their bench.
The Parkrun bench — the one she’d had to give up running past, but never gave up visiting.
She nodded. “Bench. And a pastry.”
A beat.
“I think I’ll need my own pastry.”
“Of course you do,” he said, like that was the most obvious statement ever made.
She huffed, pushing herself off the stool with a little involuntary groan, one hand sliding under the curve of her bump.
He was there in a heartbeat.
“You okay?”
“Just… my entire torso is rearranging itself,” she muttered. “Everything used to be somewhere else.”
River nodded gravely, because that seemed like the correct response.
He followed her into the hallway and handed her her jacket.
Technically, it was his jacket — but she couldn’t do her own up anymore, so…
He helped her into it, lifting the collar gently around her neck.
She turned her head into the fabric and inhaled long and deep.
“Still smells like you,” she breathed, blissfully.
Something in his chest did a soft, ridiculous flip. How could she still do that to him after all this time?
He threaded his fingers through hers and opened the door for her.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you that pastry.”
The walk to the park was mostly downhill, which Annie declared “acceptable terrain,” and River tried not to worry about the uphill walk home.
“So,” she said, nudging him lightly, “Tomaz and his wife are having another girl!”
River let out a low whistle —
“He’s well and truly outnumbered.”
“It’s good for him,” she laughed.
Tomaz was well and truly surrounded by pregnant women.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, looking at him from the corner of her eye.
“What’s that then?”
“That Tomaz can’t get a break from pregnant women.”
He chuckled and went a bit pink.
“I knew it,” she laughed, and she bumped him gently with her side like she’d done hundreds of times before — except now their son was involved too.
“In my defence,” River said, holding up their joined hands, “I did not say it. And it’s not my fault my wife is some psychic mind reader.”
“Only yours.”
“Lucky you.”
He felt her squeeze his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, not looking at him, “if I’m a bit much at the moment.”
He let go of her hand only to slide his arm around her shoulders.
“Definitely not too much.”
“I am.”
“You, Annie Cartwright, will never be too much for me.”
She sniffed then, emotional.
“I mean… has your tolerance level dropped through the floor? Sure,” he said gently. She gave him a watery smile. “But you’re tired, you’re uncomfortable, you’ve got a lot going on… and usually it’s me who has poor tolerance for things and no filter, so we’re just mixing things up.”
Her arm around his waist squeezed him, and she tilted her face up to his. He bent and kissed her, soft and certain.
God, he loved her.
They stopped at a crossing to let a bus pass, a poster plastered down the side — the film she’d mentioned weeks ago.
“Oh! That’s the one,” she said, tugging his arm. “The one with the time travel violinist and the dog.”
“I remember,” he said, amused. “You cried at the trailer.”
“It was emotional!” she protested. “The dog finds him in every timeline.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I can book us the big comfy seats if you want. The ones that recline. All the way back.”
She looked up at him, hopeful. “Really?”
“Course. You’re not missing the dog who apparently has metaphysical powers.”
She shrugged, smiling. “Sounds right up our street.”
They walked on, talking about the last bits they needed to pick up before the baby arrived — tiny socks, a nightlight, some contraption for sterilising bottles that he was pretending to understand.
They didn’t talk about the pregnancy itself — not symptoms or aches or any of yesterday’s waistband frustrations.
Just the two of them, moving through a sunny morning, hand in hand, talking about normal things and ridiculous things and everything in between.
Their bench was waiting.
He guided her down gently onto their bench, watching her settle with the familiar careful choreography: one hand on the armrest, one under her bump, a tiny puff of breath escaping as she sat.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Perfect,” she said, already eyeing the café in a way that told him everything he needed to know.
Right. Pastries.
“Stay here,” he said, brushing his thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
She just nodded, trusting, and he headed off with purpose.
The café was carnage.
Children wailing. A dog doing laps under the tables. Some to do about oatmilk. And on the pastry shelf:
One solitary pain au chocolat.
River felt his stomach drop.
Four people ahead of him — four strangers who might, at any moment, destroy his morning and possibly their marriage by saying the words:
“Pain au chocolat, please.”
He stood in line like a man waiting to disarm a bomb.
The third customer looked at the pastry shelf far too long.
River tensed.
No. Look at the flapjack. You want the flapjack. You are a flapjack person.
“Can I get… a banana muffin?” she said.
River silently thanked every deity.
Next person ordered a latte.
Next one: granola bar.
Then it was his turn.
“Pain au chocolat,” he said with the focus of an elite sniper. “Almond croissant. One decaf latte, one regular.”
The barista slid the last pastry into a bag.
Thank Christ.
He collected the coffees, cradled the pastries like priceless artefacts, and stepped outside—
—and stopped.
Sitting beside Annie on their bench was a tiny, immaculately dressed elderly woman in a lilac coat and white perm, holding Annie’s hand like she’d known Annie her whole life.
Annie’s eyes were shiny.
The elderly woman’s eyes were shiny.
There was a tissue involved.
Oh God.
River approached slowly, feeling like two crying women was completely beyond him.
“…and my Stephen,” the woman was saying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, “he was a stubborn baby, love. Stubborn! Kicked me up to the day he was born!”
Annie’s eyes were also wet.
“Oh, that must have been so hard,” she sniffed.
“It was, it was, but oh, when they put him on my chest—”
River cleared his throat gently.
Both women turned, blotchy-eyed and glowing with mutual adoration.
“Oh!” Annie brightened. “River, this is Edna.”
“Young man,” she said, patting Annie’s belly with reverence, “you take very good care of this one.”
“Yes, ma’am,” River said, because arguing with Edna seemed like a dangerous choice.
Edna sniffled again and squeezed Annie’s hand.
“You’re glowing, dear.”
Annie preened.
When Edna finally toddled off towards the duck pond, Annie leaned close and whispered, “She was wonderful.”
River sat beside her, passed over the pastry.
“You were crying,” he said softly.
“I wasn’t crying,” she insisted, breathing in the pastry. “It was just… very sunny.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And warm,” she added.
“Mm.”
“And she wasn’t bullshitting me.”
That made him laugh, and Annie elbowed him lightly before taking a blissful bite of pastry.
“Good work,” she said through a mouthful of pain au chocolat.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
After a few blissful, pastry-filled minutes, Annie brushed crumbs from her fingers and pushed herself upright.
“I need the loo,” she announced, already bracing her hands on the bench.
River stood and gave her a hand up.
She waddled off toward the café, determined, bump leading the way.
River sipped his coffee and watched her go with a fond, helpless smile.
She was gone maybe five minutes.
Then she reappeared… and she did not look quite so happy.
“You okay?” he asked carefully.
She pointed at her dungarees, exasperated.
“The dungarees are—” She broke off, shuddering. “There’s… a lot of them. It’s almost like I have to get undressed just to go to the loo. And one of the buckles has gone all… wonky.”
He didn’t laugh. That would have been suicidal.
Instead, he simply stepped forward.
“Come here. You’re a bit twisted.”
And she was — goodness knows what she’d been up to in there — but now the straps were crossing at the back and one had a full spiral kinked into it.
She huffed but obeyed, letting him turn her gently by the shoulders.
River’s fingers worked carefully, smoothing the denim flat again.
He wasn’t prepared for how warm her skin was beneath it.
Or how close she was, breathing lightly, strands of hair escaping her bun.
He tried to stay focused.
He did not stay focused.
Her voice, soft: “Is it really stuck?”
“No,” he croaked. “No, it’s just… complicated.”
She gave him a suspicious look he absolutely deserved.
Finally, he unrolled the twisted strap, straightened the bib of the dungarees, and fastened the buckle again with something approaching reverence.
“There,” he said, stepping back. “All sorted.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Are you sure? You look… weirdly invested.”
“I am a supportive husband,” he said, far too quickly.
She gave him a look that said you’re being weird, but she kissed his cheek all the same.
The walk home was uphill.
Annie was determined.
Determined in that specific, stubborn way she got when she’d decided she wasn’t fragile and no one was allowed to suggest otherwise. Her breaths were a little heavier, her steps slower, but she didn’t complain once.
River kept pace by instinct — half a step behind, ready to offer her his arm if she wanted it, but sensing it was better not to ask.
They were halfway up the incline when a man walking his dog glanced at them and shook his head sympathetically.
“Mate,” he called to River, “you should’ve brought the car. Or called her an Uber, poor thing.”
River opened his mouth—But Annie got there first.
Her entire body pivoted with surprising speed for someone carrying another human being.
“I am pregnant, not helpless,” she snapped. “And my husband takes extremely good care of me, thank you.”
The man blinked, startled.
The dog blinked, also startled.
River… tried very hard not to smile.
Annie wasn’t done.
“And for your information,” she continued, “a walk is good for me. I chose to walk. I am choosing to walk. So maybe don’t make assumptions about what I can and cannot do.”
The man raised both hands in surrender.
“Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
Annie sniffed, muttered something about people and their unsolicited opinions, and strode (slowly, but proudly) up the path.
River caught up to her in a few long steps.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said briskly. Then, more quietly: “He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
River blinked. “To me?”
“He basically accused you of neglect,” she said, scandalised. “Absolutely not. Not on my watch.”
His chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. He didn’t need strangers to think he was good. He needed her to know he was trying.
He reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
“You defending my honour now?” he teased.
“Yes,” she said, chin lifting. “Obviously.”
He tried not to beam.
He failed.
By the time they got through the door, Annie made a beeline for the loo again.
As River hung their coats up and put the shoes back on the rack (he didn’t want her to trip), he could hear her muttering to herself from the downstairs loo — and when she reappeared, the dungaree straps were decidedly wonky.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
No. He didn’t have the energy for round two.
She gave him a tired but affectionate look.
“You’ve done everything all morning. Sit down — I’ll make tea.”
He almost objected (she had, truly, done the harder work), but she was already shuffling toward the kettle, so he let her.
A few minutes later, they ended up on the sofa: her tea steaming on the coffee table, the early rugby match murmuring on the TV.
“You don’t mind?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.
“No,” she said, settling at the opposite end of the couch. “I might just… close my eyes for a bit.”
She lifted her feet, placing them gently in his lap.
He didn’t need instruction.
His hands were already on her ankles, rubbing slow circles.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out — soft, steady — and he glanced down to see she’d drifted off.
River reached for the blanket on the back of the couch and drew it over her, tucking it around the sides so she’d stay warm.
She slept for twenty minutes.
Then woke, blinked, and immediately said:
“…I need the loo again.”
River huffed out a laugh.
“Of course you do.”
She disappeared, and when she returned he patted his thigh and opened his arms.
“Come here.”
She froze.
“River… I don’t think I’ll fit. I’m colossal.”
She hesitated — really hesitated — then shook her head.
“Come here,” he repeated, softer.
And then he tugged her hands gently forward, guiding her in, and she folded into his lap like she’d done a hundred times before — plenty of room for bump too.
“You fit just fine.”
Once she was settled, tucked against his chest, the truth came out.
“I just. I don’t recognise my body anymore,” she said quietly, fingers worrying at the blanket. “Every week it’s different. Bigger. Heavier. It doesn’t feel like mine.”
His chest tightened at the honesty of it.
He didn’t correct her.
He just reached for her hand.
“Annie,” he murmured, voice low, “I see you. I’ve seen you every day. And you’re… God, you’re gorgeous. Not despite the changes — with them. All of it.”
She looked at him, eyes uncertain.
And something in him nudged — gently — toward the truth he hadn’t voiced.
“It’s been a few weeks,” he said, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I don’t mind. Not for a second. I don’t want you to feel… pressured. Ever. But you usually talk to me about how you are, and I’ve just… been guessing.”
Annie’s gaze softened; her shoulders dropped.
Her breath wobbled.
“I just… didn’t want you to look at me and feel—”
“Hey,” he said softly.
He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear — slow, careful, reverent — and she leaned into it.
River cupped her cheek gently, his thumb sweeping the warm curve of it.
“You’re still you,” he said. “And I love you.”
She looked at him — really looked — eyes shining with something stripped of self-consciousness.
He kissed her then.
Meant to be soft.
It wasn’t.
She made a small sound against his mouth, her hand curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. He felt her melt, tension dissolving, her body remembering him even if her confidence hadn’t caught up yet.
When they finally broke apart, she stayed close, forehead resting lightly against his.
Her voice was quieter, steadier.
“River… I wasn’t avoiding you. I just felt different. Not myself. And I didn’t know how to… start.”
He exhaled, relieved and undone all at once.
“Annie, I don’t mind at all. But please believe me when I say I’ve been fighting for my life all day not to look at you.”
Her eyes widened — soft, startled, warmed.
“The dungarees,” he added, heat creeping into his voice, “have been taunting me since you walked into the kitchen.”
She blinked at him.
“The dungarees?”
He nodded, “They’re doing it for me. You do it for me.”
“River…”
“Honestly, I was about to combust in the park.”
And she believed him — he saw it happening, saw the doubt slip, saw confidence ease back a notch.
A slow, knowing smile tugged at her mouth.
“Well,” she murmured, shifting closer, “if the dungarees have been tormenting you all day…”
His pulse stumbled.
“…you should probably take them off,” she finished softly.
He stared.
She raised a brow.
“Seeing as this will be the last chance you get,” she added, pretending to adjust the bib of the dungarees. “They’re too much bother. I’m not wearing them again.”
River’s brain stopped functioning for a full second.
“Annie—”
She leaned in, fingertips brushing the strap of her dungarees.
“Come on then,” she whispered. “Help me.”
He leaned in to kiss her, pulling back only enough to look into her eyes.
“See?” he murmured, soft and certain. “You do remember how it starts.”
And he kissed her again.
In the morning, River padded into the kitchen, still warm from sleep, still pleasantly wrecked from the night before — and stopped dead.
Annie stood at the counter.
Hair loose.
Bump prominent.
Tea in hand.
Wearing the dungarees.
She raised an eyebrow at his expression.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“…I thought you weren’t wearing those again.”
“I changed my mind,” she said cheerfully, reaching for a spoon. “They’re comfy.”
He stared.
She smiled — very sweetly.
“And,” she added, “they seem to motivate you.”
River had to lean on the counter.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Yes,” she said, sipping her tea. “Clearly.”