Page 110 of Break Me

Straightening slowly, I turn to the side and lift the hem of my shirt. The difference is subtle, but enough that I can't argue it away anymore. My stomach is less flat than it was a month ago.

My breasts feel heavier too, sensitive enough that I wince when I unhook my bra at night. I've spent enough time reading about early pregnancy to recognize every one of those changes.

I open the drawer beneath the sink and take out the box with the pregnancy test and stare at it longer than I should. It would only take a few minutes, and I’d have an answer.

Two lines.

A reason to be waiting in the kitchen when Sam gets home, pretending nothing’s different for just a few minutes before handing it to him. I’d get to watch the realization spread across his face. The way his eyes would shift, and his mouth would try not to smile before it gave in.

I can already see it. The thought makes me smile, but then that smile fades.

I don’t want to know without him. I don’t want to stand in here alone, staring at two lines while he’s somewhere else.

If it’s happening, I want him beside me. I want us both watching that second line appear. I want to feel his hand tighten around mine when it does.

This isn’t mine to find out alone.

So, I slide the box back into the drawer, close it gently, and head back into the kitchen.

Sam’s at the counter when I walk in, sleeves pushed up, rinsing something in the sink.

I stop short. “When did you get home?”

“A couple of minutes ago.” He glances over his shoulder, then really looks at me. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You don’t look fine. You’re pale.”

“I’m just tired.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my temple. “Sit,” he says. “I’ve got dinner.”

I don't argue as I settle into a chair at the table and watch him finish dinner.

The knife moves in an easy rhythm against the cutting board while something simmers on the stove. He reaches into the cabinet for a spice, tastes the sauce, and adds a little more without measuring.

My gaze lingers on him longer than I realize. Not because he's cooking. Not even because he looks good doing it. I think it's because I love him a little differently than I did a week ago.

He glances over his shoulder, catching me staring. "What?" he asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing,” I say, not even trying to sound innocent.

He turns fully now, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “You’re looking at me like you want something.”

“Maybe I do.”

His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, as he takes me in. Heat pools low in my stomach at the way his eyes darken.

“Dinner’s almost done,” he says.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He steps toward me, close enough that my knees brush his thighs. One hand settles at my hip.

“You’re supposed to be tired,” he murmurs.

“I was.”