𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 [slow updates]

𝟏𝟏

And now I'm actually going to vomit. Chances are it will be on him, too.

"Hi, Levin." I groan, shutting my eyes again.

"How far along?"

None of your business. "Eighteen weeks."

"Wow. Do you know if it's a boy or girl yet?"

Also none of your business. "I'm finding out later this week, hopefully."

He clears his throat. "Did you know you were pregnant when—"

Something sour and thick makes its way up my throat, and I lean over the side of the chair and vomit right into the trash can.

In an instant, Levin is at my side, collecting my hair in a single hand.

Holy crap does he smell good. I know I was just cold, but he's so close that he's making that go away.

A weird feeling blooms in my stomach, my chest a little heavy. And I know that feeling. I know it too well.

Okay. No. No, no, no.

Don't think about being attracted to him while he watches you vomit.

Be normal, Cindy. Be cool... For once, be cool.

Also, we don't know each other. It's weird. It's not like we're even friendly enough that he can laugh at the fact I just got sick.

He pats my back a couple times, asking if I'm all right. I stay quiet, because no. No, I'm not okay. Not when he's making me feel warm and nervous and... ugh.

I try to shrug the hand he's got on my shoulder away, but he doesn't let up.

"You have a hair tie?"

Throwing up has left me fatigued, so I hold up my purse for him to look for one.

It's stupid. I should know better. He's a strange man I know nothing about, yet I'm handing him my purse like it's no big deal. Like we're friends, and we're not because I'm not cool enough to know people in his world.

Well, I was friends with Tommy for a while, but that doesn't count.

"You sure?"

"You're asking me like I'm giving it up to you. Just find me one."

He snorts, and the "fight" ends there. It takes him a second of rummaging to find one, but when he does, he ties my hair with the kind of neatness only someone with sisters can accomplish. Unless he's a hair stylist on the side.

Levin grabs me a tissue to wipe my mouth with, and I take it. Vigorously scrubbing at my mouth isn't going to help with anything, but I scrub until my lips tingle.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Morning sickness at it's finest."

I almost shudder.

This is the second time today. Even though Google says that by eighteen weeks, it should start letting up, it's been equally as bad since the first time I got sick. Then, according to Mom, all the women in our family have a history of morning sickness from the beginning of their pregnancies to nearly the end.

I'm hoping now more than ever that I've got some of my Dad's good genes.

"Not the... puke. You have scratches all over your arms."

Ah.

Now, I'm one of the luckier ones. All of my scars on my wrists from the worst stage of my adolescence have healed. He has me doubting that for a second.