Not That Into You

Chapter Twenty Three - Travis

The first time she said the full name out loud, I felt something shift in my chest.

"Amelia Marjorie Kelce," Taylor murmured one night as we lay in bed, her belly against my side, her fingers tracing letters into my skin. "It feels right."

It did. Marjorie for her grandma. Amelia because it sounded strong and soft at the same time—a name that could belong to a CEO or an artist or a kid who scrapes her knees climbing trees.

I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until I nodded. "Yeah. It's perfect."

Now it's what we call her. Not "the baby." Not "her." Just... Amelia. Like she's already here.

We talk to her like she can hear us. I read to her sometimes, whatever book is closest—business memos, novels, the back of a cereal box. Taylor says she kicks more when I talk. I don't know if that's true or if she's just humoring me, but either way, I keep doing it.

We're in the waiting phase now. Any day, any time.

The hospital bags are packed by the door. The car seat is installed in my SUV. Taylor waddles a little more each day, her belly out in front of her like it's guiding the way. She says she feels like a balloon. I think she's never looked more beautiful.

And she no longer sleeps in the guest bedroom.

I didn't ask. She didn't announce it. It just happened—one night she climbed into my bed instead of hers, tucked herself beneath my arm like it was the most natural thing in the world, and that was it.

Now I wake up to her every morning. Hair a mess. Eyes half-closed. One hand on her bump like she's still guarding it in her sleep.

Every part of my life used to revolve around work. Meetings, deals, deadlines. I was never home before 9. I never cared if I was.

Now?

Now I take calls on the drive in. I cut meetings short. I text her when I'm on the way home, and half the time I bring dinner—because the only place that doesn't make her want to puke has learned my name by heart.

Tonight it's Thai food. She's been craving spicy. And I know better than to come home without extra spring rolls.

I pull into the driveway and the porch light flicks on. She's already there at the door, wearing one of my old t-shirts that barely fits over her belly, hair pulled into a messy bun, her eyes lit up the way they always are now when I get home.

"You're early," she says as I step inside.

"I missed you."

It's easier to say that now.

She blinks, then smiles softly. "I missed you too."

I kiss her forehead. Then her cheek. Then her lips. "Amelia kicking?"

"Constantly. She's getting bossy already."

"She takes after you."

"Funny," she deadpans. "Very funny."

We eat on the couch, her feet in my lap, the baby stretching beneath her skin. She lets out a soft sigh, leaning back against the cushions, and I press my palm to her belly—feeling one strong nudge.

"She's ready," I say.

"She better not come tonight," Taylor mutters. "I didn't finish laundry and I still have to repack the hospital bag because someone keeps stealing the socks out of it."

"I didn't steal them. I borrowed them."

She gives me a look, then curls into me with a tired sigh.

We watch some random baking show. She falls asleep halfway through. I mute the TV and just sit there, letting her breathe against me. Her bump rises and falls. Our baby, alive and growing and coming.

I never thought this would be my life. I never imagined sharing my home with someone like her—messy and honest and chaotic and real. She pushes back. She cries when she's overwhelmed. She's not scared of me. She knows me.

And I love her.

That part I haven't said out loud yet.

But I feel it when I come home early, and when she reaches for my hand at night, and when I picture what it's going to be like the first time I hold Amelia and Taylor's right there beside me.

That kind of feeling... it's loud. It doesn't need to be spoken yet.

Not when we still have time.

For now, I just hold her closer, hand on her belly, and whisper:

"We're almost there."

She stirs a little in her sleep, lets out a tiny whimper like she's uncomfortable, and I instinctively shift to help. Slide a pillow under her arm, adjust her position. She exhales, settling back down. My hand stays where it is.

Her skin is warm under my palm. I swear I feel a flutter—not a kick, just a roll, like Amelia's stretching.

I whisper to her, the baby.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit, voice so low it barely makes a sound. "I've never done anything like this. But I swear I'm going to try. For both of you."

It feels stupid, talking to a baby who can't talk back—but it also feels necessary. Because the fear is there. Still, always. Not of her—of messing this up.

Taylor shifts again, burying her face in my side. Her fingers twitch where they rest against my thigh. I know she's exhausted. I know she's scared too. But she's doing this. She's showing up. Every day.

And if she can, I can too.

I reach for the throw blanket on the back of the couch and gently tug it over both of us. The TV's still on, casting flickering light across the room. Outside, it's raining lightly—a soft tapping against the windows.

The sound used to annoy me. Now it's kind of nice.

Safe.

Like home.

And with Taylor asleep on my chest and my hand resting over the life we created, I feel it more than ever.

We really are almost there.

And I'm not going anywhere.

A/N: If you're wondering where the baby names came from... yes, I've been deep in a Grey's Anatomy rewatch—obviously. I originally planned for this story to be much longer, but life's been a little overwhelming lately, so I've decided to wrap it up sooner than expected. There will probably only be 5 or 6 more chapters. I hope it doesn't feel too rushed, though I know it might. Still, I'm grateful for anyone reading along.