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From the sink, I toss the wet rag at her, not wanting to get any closer to allthatthan necessary. “Could end tomorrow,” I tell her. “Could last until your third trimester.”

In the middle of this, she begins jabbing a finger at her shoulder like she’s trying to tell me something. Deciding that ignorance is bliss, I ignore it.

Until she gasps, “Could you… hold it. Hold it!”

I briefly consider walking away and getting into bed, falling asleep to the sounds of her gacking. Rolling my eyes, I trod over to her. She looks wretched and pale—quivering, and not in the good, sexy way she was mere minutes ago. Pointedly averting my gaze, I reach down to clumsily gather her hair up, jabbing the handle to flush down what’s already been expelled. This isn’t the part of medicine where I excel.

Crouching down behind her, I take up the wet rag, pull her head up, and blindly drag it over her face. “Maybe if you took the vitamins—”

“Finish that sentence,” she growls, “and I’ll find something in this bathroom to stab you with.”

I snort. “Yeah, you’re really intimidating right now, all clammy and pasty and covered in fluids.”

“You’re such a—”

I never find out what I am.

The word gets puked out with another round of heaving.

I spend it staring at her back, counting her vertebrae. She’s too skinny. I make a note to increase her caloric intake.

“Lex,” she pants, deflating as the round of heaving ends. “I know it’s tradition and probably lost in some fine print inside the covenants, but…” She twists to meet my gaze through wet eyelashes, a despondent plea in her eyes. “Please.Pleaseno more warm milk.”

I blink. “What?”

Her voice is like gravel. “I’ll take the vitamins, okay? I’ll do the other stuff. But if I have to drink another glass of warm milk…” Somehow, her pallor worsens, her bottom lip trembling as she gasps. “It’s killing me. I can’t keep it down. Every night, I’m just…” Her lips press tightly together, clearly holding down another gag. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Spitting a curse, I mutter, “Jay fucking Cuthbert,” and dab the corner of her mouth with the rag. “No more warm milk.”

Her eyes track me carefully, even as they fill with hope. “Really?”

Giving the toilet another flush, I pull her to her feet. She wobbles but grabs onto my arms, staggering as I lead her to rest against the edge of the counter. I reach around her to wet another rag, ordering, “Hold on.” I mean for her to grab the lip of the counter, but instead, she places each hand on my shoulders, her green eyes wide and wet as I crouch down.

It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

I flex my fist around the rag as I spread her, cock already twitching back to life at the gleam of my seed. I’ve seen my semen dribbling out of her plenty of times, but never like this. She looks swollen and used, her pussy a bright, vivid pink, and when I finally bring myself to run the cloth over it, her thighs quake.

I clean her methodically from knee to groin, taking away every trace of myself. The gentler I am, the steadier she gets, widening her stance for my diligent scrubbing, and I become lost in the motions. It’s odd, the way I’m able to know a twitch means something is ticklish, but it’s odder that when it happens, I make a choice to readjust. To soothe instead of irritate. There’s a reason every internship is mostly spent in labs, away from patients.

Chilling.

Other doctors sense that this isn’t my area and keep me away from anything necessitating the human touch. This has never bothered me, except…

Except maybe I’m notsobad at it.

“I can have Danner make you some ginger tea,” I offer, but when I glance up, my eyes meet her belly, movements slowing to a halt. We’re not in the exam room, and we’re not in the bedroom. We’re in some inexplicable middle where she’s neither patient nor Princess. For the first time, I look at her and am seized by the notion that my baby is in there. Right beyond this skin and muscle and sinew.

Rightthere.

My throat sticks with a dry swallow as it comes down on me all at once.

I’m staying forthis. This bundle of cells and slowly forming neurons that are going to turn into a person has a grip on me before it even has hands. How does that happen? Why do I think of it in there and feel both filled with purpose and utterly fucking lost?

I’m only broken out of this revelation when a slow flutter moves through my hair. My eyes jump up to hers, caught off guard by the realization I’m framing her belly with my palms.

And she’s caressing my hair.

Her guileless eyes are tracking the movements of her own fingers. “I like it when you wear it down,” she whispers, sounding tired and half-dazed.