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austin

Five months later…

W elp.

I’m still pregnant.

I know that’s what you were wondering and the answer is yes, Gio is still the father. And everyone in the free world knows it because he insists on telling every single person we meet, as if he deserves a medal.

Everyone: “Oh, you’re pregnant? Congratulations!”

Him: “Thanks, it’s mine.”

Proud Zaddy vibes.

Anyway, pregnancy has been a wild ride.

I’m a hormonal time-bomb wrapped in stretchy leggings, oversized hoodies, oversized Baddies jerseys, messy buns…

…and Gio?

Obviously feeling way cuter than I am and living his best life. He loves my pregnant stomach, loves my changing body, loves how crabby I’ve become—BECAUSE HE IS SO ANNOYING.

Seriously.

He’s starting to drive me nuts.

He narrates everything. EVERYTHING.

“Captain’s Log: bae is going for her third pickle of the day. Her third. Let’s see how this plays out in the bathroom .... ”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the baby demands nachos at 2 a.m. Will I survive this grocery store run? Stay tuned!”

And do not get me started on the names he’s choosing.

This week? He’s taken to calling the baby Giovanni Dangerous . Not Gio, Junior. Not Dangerous. Giovanni Dangerous . Like he’s naming a damn Bond villain.

The worst part is he’s completely serious. I tried to veto his suggestion—obviously—but then he started googling, “How to legally file a baby name without the mother’s consent,” and now I’m watching him closely— just in case.

Worse, still?

Gio has also decided that pregnancy is the perfect time to become a “cool dad influencer.” He bought an adventure camera and strapped it to his chest to capture “authentic dad moments.” Which thus far includes: footage of him folding laundry, giving pep talks before doctor’s appointments, and ordering all available French fry varieties (curly, regular, and sweet potato) because I was craving potatoes.

The thing is…

As ridiculous as he’s behaving, I love him.

There.

I said it.

I love Gio Montagalo and if you would have told me six months ago, I wouldn’t have believed you. Never, not in a million years.

Gio has been showing up in a big way. Like, really showing up.

And I love the way he talks to my stomach, telling the baby about all the places they’re going to go and the games they’re going to play and the things they’re going to learn.

I love how he holds my hand during every single ultrasound.

He’s been the best. When I couldn’t reach my toes to paint my nails, Gio sat on the bathroom floor with a tiny bottle of pink polish in his giant hand and painted them for me. Granted, it looked like a toddler slopped the paint on wearing a blindfold, but the effort?

A+

The other day, I caught him trying to assemble the crib we ordered online. He had the instructions upside down and was using a wrench on the wrong screw, but the look of sheer determination on his face? Nearly made me cry.

Confession: It did make me cry, but to be fair, I cry at insurance commercials these days .

And don’t even get me started on the prenatal classes. Gio goes all in . While the other dads are quietly nodding along to the instructor, Gio is taking notes like he’s cramming for the SATs. He asks questions— so many questions .

“What if the baby’s first word is in Italian? Is that okay?”

“Can I be in charge of the lullabies? I’ve been working on a playlist.”

“Hypothetically speaking, if the baby looks exactly like me, how do we handle jealousy?”

He’s ridiculous.

He’s exhausting.

He’s mine .

“Babe? Are you ready? The realtor is going to meet us at the house in half an hour, and I don’t want to hit traffic,” his voice calls out from the kitchen, where I’m sure he’s pacing in that dramatic way of his.

I walk into the room with an eye roll as I grab my purse from his glossy counter. “It’s Sunday, Gio. We’re not going to hit traffic—the city is still sleeping.”

We’re heading to look at houses—can you believe that shit?

Me.

In a house.

Together, we decided we’d rather not be in a high-rise penthouse or an apartment when the baby arrives, and we came to the agreement—after several debates and a pros-and-cons list on his whiteboard—that maybe we should live together .

It makes sense, right?

He doesn’t want to miss everything, and quite honestly, I’d love to share the responsibility. And so here we are, scoping out houses just outside the city limits, in a small suburb close to my college and the ice rink—a win-win for both of us.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. The idea of waking up every day and seeing Gio— all of Gio —with his messy bedhead, his wide-eyed morning enthusiasm, and his inability to properly load a dishwasher.

It’s a lot.

“Babe, I think you’re really gonna love this one,” he says, breaking into my thoughts as he leans against the doorframe, looking way too proud of himself for someone who probably picked this house based on how large the garage was. “The listing said it’s got hardwood floors and a pot filler above the kitchen—whatever that is—but most importantly, a fenced yard .”

“A yard for what?” I ask, arching a brow. “I don’t think Gio will want to wander.” He won’t even want to go outside.

He hates it out there.

“You know, in the winter. I can build a rink in the backyard so the baby can learn to skate.”

“Gio, the baby isn’t even born yet, and you’re already planning their skating career?”

“Hey, we gotta start ‘em early if we’re raising the next hockey superstar—this place has two acres of side yard. That’s enormous.”

I blink at him, trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or just get back in bed and pretend this conversation never happened. “You can hardly build Ikea furniture without YouTube tutorials, and now you think you can build an ice rink?”

“Totally different skill set,” he insists, sounding completely unbothered. “I bookmarked some tutorials on my phone. It’s gonna be amazing. Trust me.”

We make our way toward the parking garage.

“Gio, just so we’re clear—this imaginary rink of yours? Who’s going to maintain it? Because I’m not waking up at five in the morning to scrape ice or whatever it is hockey parents do.”

“Oh, don’t worry, babe,” he says, pulling out the car keys with a flourish. “I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll get one of those Zamboni machines. You know, the mini ones. I’ll just drive it around the yard.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “A Zamboni ?”

He nods like this is the most reasonable idea he’s ever had. “Yeah. I’ve already been looking at used ones online. They’re not that expensive if you find one from, like, 1998.”

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but of course—there isn’t one.

This man is dead serious .

“Let me get this straight. You want to buy a house, build an ice rink, and then…drive a Zamboni in our backyard?”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning like he’s just nailed the best pitch of his life.

“Dude, no.”

As we pull out of the garage, I glance over at him, his face lit up with excitement. It’s ridiculous, honestly—this whole ice rink idea, the Zamboni, everything—but it’s also kind of adorable. Because underneath all the chaos and the questionable plans, Gio is trying.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t trade this insanity for anything.

“Know what I’m gonna do when we get back to my place?”

“Hmm?” I hum, scrolling through podcasts to listen to on our drive. “What are you going to do when we get back to your place?”

“Go down on you,” he announces, grinning at the oncoming traffic like he’s just declared he’s going to make a grilled cheese.

My brows shoot up at his pronouncement.

He’s said it as if he just told me the sky is blue, or that I’m having a baby: matter-of-fact and to the point. No room for argument .

I blink at him, momentarily forgetting how to form coherent words.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs, still grinning. “What? You deserve it. House hunting is stressful. You’re carrying my child. Least I can do.”

“Oh, the least you can do?” I repeat, torn between laughing, rolling my eyes, and blushing furiously. Still, he is not wrong. It’s been a few weeks since he’s gone down on me and I wouldn’t shove him out of bed for crawling down between my legs. “It's not like we haven’t been having sex.”

“I realize that. But oral is like a Hallmark card—when you care enough to send the very best.”

He slides his big bear paw over my thigh and squeezes. “Sex is great, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something about oral. I think it’s a thoughtful gesture, don’t you?”

“A thoughtful gesture,” I repeat, staring at him in disbelief, podcast forgotten.

“Exactly,” he says, nodding confidently. “Like, ‘ Hey babe, I see you, I appreciate you, and I want to make you feel amazing .’ That’s the message.”

His fingers slide up my black leggings, slow and deliberate, and my heart stutters in my chest.

“Gio,” I say, my voice a little breathier than I’d like, “we’re literally on our way to meet a realtor. Can you not?”

“Why not?” he teases, his hand lingering above my knee, thumb making lazy circles that send a shiver up my spine.

I press my lips together, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my belly.

“I can’t with you,” I mutter, crossing my arms in what I hope looks like indignation and not a desperate attempt to keep myself from grabbing him.

Panties = 100%

“You look so fucking sexy when you’re hot and bothered.”

“Gio,” I warn, though my voice doesn’t have nearly as much bite as I’d hoped .

“What?” he asks, all innocence, but the glint in his eye tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. His hand shifts ever so slightly, the barest movement, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch.

“We’re meeting a realtor in twenty minutes,” I remind him, tone sharp but my resolve weakening.

“ Plenty of time to fuck,” he murmurs, gaze flicking briefly to my face before returning to the road, far too casual for someone wreaking absolute havoc on my self-control.

My fingers twitch in my lap, and I squeeze my thighs together in a futile attempt to regain composure.

“You are ridiculous .”

“You love it,” he says, his smirk widening. “Admit it, babe—you like when I rile you up.”

I do like it when he riles me up.

“Just say the word,” he says, his rumbling voice always makes my stomach flip. “I’ll pull over, and we’ll be late to the showing. Totally worth it.”

Despite myself, I giggle.

I love it when he flirts.

And I love that he finds me sexy even though I am five months pregnant, with a round belly and big boobs.

Ugh!

For a moment, we fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that feels warm and safe and easy. The kind that makes me think maybe, just maybe, we’ve got this whole “starting a family together” thing figured out.

“You know,” he says suddenly, his tone softer now, “I can’t wait to see you in that backyard with the baby.”

I glance at him, my heart squeezing at the shift in his voice. “Oh yeah? What am I doing in this fantasy of yours?”

“Everything,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Teaching them how to skate, chasing them around, sitting on the porch with a hot chocolate while I scrape the ice because you’re mad at me for forgetting to clean it the day before. ”

I shoot him an irritated look. “Why does everything have to revolve around ice skating and hockey? Did it ever occur to you that I don’t even know how to ice skate?”

Gio’s head snaps toward me so fast I’m mildly concerned for his neck. Then, with dramatic flair, he pretends to lose control of the car, jerking the wheel slightly. “What? WHAT? Don’t know how to ska?—”

“Gio!” I yell, clutching the door in mock panic.

He straightens the car, glancing at me with wide, exaggerated eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Babe, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

He is dead serious—or at least pretending to be. I can see the corners of his mouth twitching, but his tone?

Heartfelt.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, stop it. It’s not like I told you I’ve never seen Game of Thrones or something.”

“This is worse,” he says solemnly, gripping the wheel like he’s delivering bad news. “This is catastrophic. My pregnant girlfriend doesn’t know how to ice skate. What have I done?”

“You’ve impregnated someone with no athletic skill,” I deadpan.

Gio shakes his head slowly, muttering under his breath. “This changes everything.”

“Does it, though?” I tease, crossing my arms.

“Yes. Because now, not only do I have to teach our kid to skate, I’ve got to teach you too.” He glances over, his face lit with a kind of childlike excitement that makes it impossible to stay annoyed. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’ve got this . I’ll teach you the basics first—balance, gliding, stopping. We’ll take it slow. I’ll even hold your hand the whole time.”

I burst out laughing. “Thanks.”

“You can’t be a hockey mom and not know how to skate.” He lets me know. “It’s, like, the first rule.”

“Gio, I never agreed to be a hockey mom,” I tease, though the mental image of him teaching me to skate is admittedly kind of sweet. And the thought of our kid being on a hockey team….

Adorable.

“You will,” he says with a confident smirk. “Wait until you see me coaching from the bench. You won’t be able to resist.”

If my ovaries weren’t currently otherwise occupied, they’d be exploding from the cuteness. The idea of Gio shouting at tiny humans to “skate faster” while our kid looks up at him with awe?

It’s a recipe for emotional overload.

“You’ve really thought this through, eh?” I say, my voice softening despite my best efforts to stay teasing.

“I’ll make sure to keep it fun. No crazy coach dad energy—just hot dad energy.”

He already is a hot dad.

Looking at him has me practically drooling.

Swoon!

“So, what happens if the baby doesn’t like hockey?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him because it is entirely possible our kid won’t have a single, athletic bone in their body—like their mama.

He gasps dramatically.

“Impossible. It’s in their DNA.”

“Gio,” I deadpan. “The baby could just as easily hate ice and decide they want to do ballet or play chess. What then?”

He scoffs. “Obviously I’ll learn how to be the best damn chess dad ever,” he says without missing a beat. “I’ll build a life-size chess set in the backyard

Good God.

No.

I laugh again, the kind of laugh that bubbles up uncontrollably.

“I love you,” I say, my head leaning back against the headrest, one hand resting protectively on my baby bump .

He reaches over, his hand warm and steady as he places it over mine, giving my bump a soft pat.

“I love you, too,” he says in a way that makes my chest ache in the best way. “Both of you.”

I let my eyes close for just a moment, a soft smile playing on my lips.

He’s a goofball.

A big, hot, sexy goofball.

My goofball.

For forever, maybe.

Even if it does mean I’ll probably end up with a Zamboni parked in my backyard.