Chapter Text
the morning alarm cut through the quiet bedroom at 5:45 am, a sharp incessant beeping that had michael reaching out blindly to swat the top of the nightstand.
next to him, you shuffled under the heavy duvet, groaning quietly into the pillow with the deadened exhaustion of someone who had spent twelve hours over an autopsy table.
seeing you stir, michael dragged himself closer. he didn’t pull away to start his day. instead, he maneuvered until his chest was pressed flush against your back, slinging a heavy arm over your waist and burying his nose into the crook of your neck.
he inhaled deeply, expecting the sharp, powdery bite of the french designer perfume you had worn since the day he met you. instead, his senses were hit with a soft scent of vanilla and almond oil.
"mmm," he hummed, his voice thick with sleep against your skin. "you changed it."
you stirred again, blinking against the faint morning light. "changed what?"
"your perfume, my love," he murmured, his fingers absently tracing small circles over the fabric of your shirt, right above your hip. "it’s different. sweet."
"the old one started smelling like floor cleaner," you muttered, eyes still half-closed. "made my nose itch."
michael didn't reply, but his hand didn't move either. it stayed anchored there, resting heavy against your midsection.
"angel," you whispered, a slight laugh tugging at your lips despite your bone-deep tiredness. "i have to get up in fifteen minutes. dr. etomi wants the preliminary report on the westside case by eight."
"five minutes," he bargained, his voice muffled against your neck. he tightened his grip even more, impossibly so, pulling you so close there wasn't an inch of air between you.
it was happening more and more lately. almost six months into the marriage, and while you expected a honeymoon phase like what your married friends had told you, michael had completely morphed into a persistent shadow.
if you were sitting on the couch reading something, he was leaning against your shoulder, resting his chin on your head.
if you were in the kitchen making tea, he’d wander in, wrap his arms around your waist from behind, and rest his forehead against your shoulder while the kettle boiled.
it was sweet, if maybe just a tiny bit suffocating (but honestly it's not like you really minded). you assumed he was just enjoying the rare lull in his schedule—no stadiums to fill, no press conferences, just quiet days at home while he casually worked on music demos.
an hour later, you were fully dressed in your blouse and slacks, rushing through the kitchen to grab your coffee thermos. michael was standing near the counter, wearing an oversized shirt, watching you with that strangely intense focus he’d had all week.
"eat something," he said softly, sliding a plate across the island.
you paused, just staring at it. there was a thick slice of brioche toast topped with a ridiculous layer of raspberry jam and a dusting of powdered sugar.
"michael, i don't eat sweet stuff in the morning. you know it gives me a headache."
"you ate three cinnamon rolls on tuesday," he pointed out, leaning his elbows on the counter. "and you stole my ice cream last night."
“’cos i was running on four hours of sleep and my brain needed sugar," you shot back, though your stomach gave a traitorous rumble. you picked up the toast anyway and took a bite. it tasted ridiculously good. "my cycle is probably just acting up again. you know how irregular it gets when i'm stressed."
"right. stress," he repeated.
his tone may have been neutral, but his eyes tracked the way you swallowed, dropping briefly to the front of your blouse before rising back to meet yours.
he walked around the island, stepping right into your personal space. he didn't even say anything, just reached out and wiped some crumbs on the corner of your mouth. his thumb lingered there, pressing gently, as if testing the warmth of your skin.
"what?"
"nothing," he murmured, softly smiling. "just... stay safe today. don't push yourself too hard."
"i cut open dead people for a living, mike. it's not exactly high-risk."
"still."
he leaned down and kissed you—not a quick goodbye peck, but a deep, lingering press of his lips that left you slightly breathless. when he pulled back, his hands rested firmly on your hips, holding you in place for a second longer than necessary. "call me when you get there.”
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
by early afternoon, the morgue felt suffocatingly cold, yet somehow sweat was prickling at the back of your neck.
you pulled off your gloves, leaning heavy against the edge of the metal sink. your head was swimming. the chemical smell of the formaldehyde—a scent you hadn't noticed in years—was suddenly so overpowering it made your throat constrict.
it’s probably just exhaustion, you told yourself. just the double shifts and maybe too much sugar.
you took a slow breath, stepping out of the lab and down the long hallway toward your office. as you rounded the corner, you froze.
your husband was sitting on the wooden bench outside your door.
he was wearing a black fedora pulled low and a dark jacket, his long legs stretched out in front of him. he held a small insulated lunch bag resting on his lap.
"michael? what are you doing here? is everything okay?"
he stood up immediately, stepping toward you. "you forgot your lunch. and you didn't call."
"i was in the middle of an autopsy," you said, incredulous, a fond smile cracking through your fatigue. you almost never forgot your lunch—as you were usually hyper-organized—so seeing him standing there with your lunch bag made the whole day feel a little surreal. "you came all the way into the city just for that?”
"i wanted to see you.”
he didn't wait for permission. he reached out, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you against his chest right there in the middle of the hospital corridor. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, taking a long sniff of that new vanilla scent.
"mike, people are walking by," you whispered, though you wrapped your arms around his waist anyway, letting yourself lean into his warmth.
"let them walk," he muttered into your hair. his hand glided down your spine, resting flat against the small of your back, applying a gentle pressure that seemed to instantly ease the dull ache in your lower muscles.
you pulled back slightly to look at him, searching his eyes. "you're being weird today. you've been weird for weeks."
"i'm fine," he said, offering an enigmatic smile that didn't quite reveal his thoughts. he unzipped the bag, pulling out your usual container alongside a small, chilled bottle of ginger ale. "eat.”
you looked at the ginger ale, then up at his face. a sudden, strange realization flickered at the back of your mind—a thought that cut straight through the fog of your fatigue.
ginger. for nausea.
vanilla. for sensitivity.
sweets. for fatigue.
wait.
"michael," you said softly, your heart suddenly taking a hard thud against your ribs. "how long has my period been late?"
he didn't answer right away. he just held your gaze, his eyes brimming with tenderness, a tiny, triumphant tilt touching the corner of his lips.
"about three weeks.”
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
the drive back home was practically silent.
michael understood you needed the quiet to think and by the time you pulled into the driveway, you had a pharmacy bag clutched tightly in your lap, containing two identical white boxes.
in the master bathroom, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. you sat on the edge of the closed toilet lid, holding the plastic stick in your hand while the small timer on the counter ticked down.
michael, on the other hand, was pacing the tile floor like a caged cat.
he couldn't keep still—his hands went into his pockets, then out, then he was crouching right in front of you, resting his chin on your knees and looking up into your face.
"is the time up?" he whispered. or tried to whisper with his voice pitching high as he struggled to contain his excitement.
"mike, it's been ninety seconds. it takes three minutes."
"it feels like an hour," he muttered, resting his hands on your thighs, his fingers digging in lightly. he was practically vibrating. "i'm telling you. i already know. i just want to see the little lines."
"you don't know anything yet," you countered softly, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. "you're just overly observant and incredibly clingy.”
"i knew," he insisted, a bright, boyish grin breaking across his face. "you stopped letting me lay my head on your chest because you said your bra was too tight. and you smelled like vanilla. and you were cranky."
the timer suddenly went off with a sharp beep before you could answer.
your breath hitched. you looked down at the test in your hand.
two solid, undeniably pink lines.
michael didn't even wait for you to speak. he read the look on your face, let out a gasp, and immediately leaned in, burying his face into your stomach as his arms wrapped tight around your waist. he was laughing, a bubbling sound against your shirt.
“i knew it.”
"you're impossible," you breathed, tears unexpectedly stinging the corners of your eyes as you ran your fingers through his soft curls.
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
later that evening, the test sat forgotten on the nightstand, and the two of you were tangled together under the sheets. true to form, michael hadn't put an inch of distance between you since you left the bathroom; he was lying on his side, one leg hooked over yours, his palm resting flat and warm over your lower stomach.
"so," you murmured, tracing the line of his jawline with your index finger. "when exactly do you think this happened, mr. detective?"
michael’s eyes fluttered open, a wicked little smirk slowly spreading across his lips.
"well," he drawled softly, his thumb lazily stroke your hip, sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. "you had that three-day break at the end of april. the studio was closed for renovations.”
"when you insisted on staying in bed until two in the afternoon every day?”
"the very same," he hummed, leaning down to press a warm kiss right below your ear, making you shiver. "remember the second night? when you said you were too tired, and then..."
"okay, alright," you cut him off, laughing as your cheeks flushed hot, burying your face in his chest. "i remember."
"i think it was that night," he whispered into your hair, his voice dropping into that gentle tone that always made your knees weak. "you were extra pretty and extra sweet to me then."
"you're ridiculous," you teased softly, looking up at him. "and you're going to be insufferable for the next eight months, aren't you?"
"absolutely," he smiled, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders and kissing the tip of your nose. "you're stuck with me hovering 24/7 now. no escaping.”