You're humming a soft tune, sitting on the couch and folding some of Harry's clothes. On the screen in front of you, a very frazzled bride is trying to pick out the ideal wedding dress. Every so often, a bridesmaid will coo or gasp, and your eyes flick up to the screen to see what all the fuss is about. You've already nodded along in acceptance of some dresses, but others have been downright revolting.
Like the one that she's trying on now.
"Too fluffy," you say to no one in particular, grimacing as the bride arranges the petticoat of the dress. "It makes her look like a chicken."
But the bridesmaids are squealing and the bride is grinning maniacally, and your heart plummets when you realize that she's going to wear that monstrosity as she walks down the aisle. You shake your head, dropping your gaze back down to where you're folding a pair of Harry's boxers. "Oh, no..."
You hear the rest of the women fawning over the dress and close your eyes. The garment just isn't your cup of tea—if it were your wedding, you'd have a beautiful number, nothing too fancy, just enough to please you and to compliment all of your assets...
You swallow down the lump in your throat, sighing quietly. As if it can sense the plummeting of your mood, the small creature inside of you doles out a blunt kick, and you gasp, clutching the underside of your bump. "What're you doing in there, hmm?" you murmur, rubbing the spot.
In response, your unborn baby shifts again, and you groan lightly. "What's wrong? Why aren't you being good for Mummy?" You pause, tenderly patting your bump. "Missing your daddy, huh? Don't worry, he'll be back soon. He just went to go get us some food so that we can make sure you become big and strong."
For a few moments you stay like that, rubbing your swollen belly and smiling softly, the thought of weddings fleeing from your mind. Eventually though, you're snapped out of your blissful stupor when the bride erupts into squeals, declaring that she's going to buy that absolute miscreation of a dress. You grumble in disappointment, muttering something about having had "high hopes" for her.
"Let's go," you tell your bump, reaching for the remote. A moment later, the television screen goes dark, and you stand slowly, collecting all of Harry's underwear and bunching them up in your arms (but careful as not to wrinkle them, of course).
You trudge out of the living room and make your way to the base of the steps. It's still early enough into your pregnancy that you're not waddling around and needing help to climb staircases, so you conquer the steps with ease (though you're panting a bit more than usual when you reach the top). You enter the bedroom that you share with Harry, walking over to his nightstand to put away the many pairs of boxers that are still clutched in your arms.
A few of his rings lay scattered haphazardly on the small table. Your eyes are drawn to the way they glint in the sunlight, and all of your worries and doubts come flooding back. You sigh, chancing a glance at your left hand; your fourth finger remains barren and simple.
Was he ever going to ask?
The question has been gnawing at you for months now.
It started when you'd found out you were pregnant. Harry had been ecstatic—his smile had seemed permanently etched into his face. He had been all over you for the first few months...in fact, he still is. "Jus' so beautiful carryin' m'child, love," he always tells you earnestly, "Makes me wanna lay in bed an' love on yeh all day."
You definitely wouldn't object.
You're carrying his child, for Christ's sake. You're practically married already, living a domestic life and doing domestic things, like going out a fetching fast food, or folding each other's laundry. But for you, something feels incomplete without that small piece of jewellery on your left hand. You're scared that he doesn't share your desires, and that he doesn't want to take that next step. You're happy with him—so fucking happy—but you just want to be...his.
