mine {h.s.} | {b3}

CHAPTER TWO

— CHAPTER TWO —

august, year one.

It's the middle of the night, but I am wide awake. Sleep has been a hot commodity in this here last month. Insomnia has been but the newest of my pregnancy symptoms that I will add to the favorable list, like: morning sickness that is not limited to the morning, the frequent and unavoidable need to pee, tenderness all over my body but particularly in my breasts and back, and heartburn. Pregnancy, as it turns out, can be simply and ironically defined as the gift that keeps giving.

Harry tries to be a sport about it. To the best of his ability he tries not to fall asleep until I have fallen asleep myself. Tenderly he admitted one night that it upsets him to think of me awake, alone in the middle of the night with only my horrible thoughts. We've not spoken about them much—neither of us has the words. Though, it does provide me with some sort of feeling of solidarity to know that he knows that they're there. I've come to terms with the notion of being pregnant but am no means yet comfortable with the realities of such. Accordingly, Harry hates to think of me alone with these thoughts. Not that I blame him. I, too, hate to be the one receiving these thoughts. Bearing such in mind, he's repeatedly assured me to wake him up if I find myself unable to sleep. If he can't do anything for me to rid me of these thoughts, at the very least he has been adamant that he can offer me company.

Tonight had felt different. When I'd gone to bed, I had some sort of gut feeling that told me that I would be able to sleep through the night. I'd emptied my bladder, Harry had laid about on the bed massaging me all over until the tension had sunk from my muscles, and I'd taken some pills to help with the heartburn. All around, tonight appeared as though we'd been proactive enough to preemptively counteract any of the potential obstacles.

At least, so I had thought.

Awake now, the clock on my phone tells me that it is just shy of three in the morning. My stomach is the pressing issue, awake and raving for chicken wings. A vegetarian, and a selective pescatarian, of just over three years at this point—and my husband even longer—we don't bother stocking meat anymore. Instead, we just have meat alternatives. But at the moment, none of that matters. The urge and necessity for the carnivorous plates is consuming and insatiable. I've had cravings before and I know that they don't easily go away. Nothing will satiate me until I've enjoyed these very chicken wings.

I've been trying to curb the feeling for the past ten minutes. Like a parent to a child, I've been trying to distract myself with bigger and better things. None have taken and each time my appetite comes back, stronger. At this point, the issue is not even the meat of it all, but the inaccessibility of chicken wings at three in the morning. "Harry," I finally concede, reaching out to nudge his shoulder. "Harry, baby, wake up."

"Hmm?" He rolls over on his side, collecting me in his arms sleepily. Instinctively his hands reach down to splay against the skin of my stomach, easily sneaking under the material of his t-shirt on my body. We no longer separate our laundry—more for my convenience than his. After all, I find that I take his clothes more frequently than I wear my own, anyway. More recently, he has begun to even dip into my clothing collection. Sheepishly, at first, though I repeatedly assured him that I didn't mind. After that, he became noticeably more forthright. His hand warms my skin. "You okay?" His voice is deep and raspy, his lips peppering kisses along the shell of my ear. "Baby okay?"

"We're fine." I agree, tracing my fingers on top of his as they press against my stomach. A contented sigh parts from him upon the simplicity of my actions.

"Can't sleep?" He correctly presumes, and I nod my head. Easily he tucks me into his side, pulling me into him. The beating of his heart is a lullaby that immediately settles with me. The thrum is simple and steady; just like his presence in my life.