Bit by bit

Mallory

The door to Kian's house opened a little while into Emilie's visit, and my whole body went tense.

I hadn't been here since I started showing—at least not properly. Not since I had a bump you couldn't exactly hide under an oversized hoodie. Kian hadn't wanted his da to know about the baby. Not because he was ashamed. Never that. But because his da... well, he's not exactly father of the year material. And Kian didn't trust him not to ruin something important.

So we'd been at mine, mostly. Or Conor's. Or anywhere else his dad wouldn't be.

But now I was here. Sitting on the sofa, eight months pregnant, a glitter-covered notebook on the floor beside me, and a small, brilliant little girl leaning against her brother like she belonged there. Because she did.

And then that door creaked open.

Kian's head snapped up instantly, and I saw it—the shift. His spine straightened, jaw clenched just slightly. Not fear exactly, but something like instinct. A kind of defense mode I hated that he even had to carry.

He stood up slowly, stepping in front of Emi almost casually, like it was just something he did.

The man who walked in looked rougher than I remembered. Tired. A bit worn down. He stumbled slightly when he saw us, and his eyes—cold and sharp despite the drink—landed on me.

And more importantly, my stomach.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, eyebrows raising. "That yours?"

Kian didn't move. "Yeah."

I could feel Emi's hand slip into mine, tiny fingers wrapping around mine tight.

"And who's the girl?" he asked, nodding toward me like I was furniture.

"She's Mallory," Kian said, his voice low but steady. "My girlfriend. And the baby's mam."

There was a pause.

Kian's dad sniffed, ran a hand over his face, then smirked. "Knocked her up, did ya? Chip off the old block."

I felt my chest tighten, but I didn't flinch. I wasn't ashamed. I'd never be ashamed of this baby. Of what we had.

Kian took a step forward. "You're not gonna talk to her like that."

His dad laughed, but it was bitter. "Relax. Just making conversation."

Kian didn't say anything.

Emi pressed a little closer to me, and I squeezed her hand gently. She didn't look scared. Just... wary. Like she'd seen this before.

Kian's dad looked between all of us, eyes lingering just a bit too long before he shrugged and grabbed a bottle of something from the kitchen counter, heading for the stairs like we weren't even there.

The second he disappeared, the room exhaled.

Kian turned back to us, eyes finding mine instantly. "You alright?"

I nodded, heart still beating a little too fast. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry he—"

"Don't be," I said, standing up and brushing my hand down my bump. "You're nothing like him."

Kian looked at me for a long second, then kissed the top of Emi's head and pulled me in with his free arm.

"Not gonna lie," he murmured, "this is the most proper we've ever looked."

Emi looked up, still clinging to my hand. "We looked proper before. Just more glitter now."

And somehow, despite the tension, the laughter came easy. Because she was right. Glitter or not, we were ours.

Kian made sure the door to his dad's room was shut before we settled back down. Emi climbed up between us on the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world, her little legs tucked under her and her new glitter notebook propped on her knees.

He hadn't said anything else—not really—but I could tell he was still wound tight. His arm stayed around me, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles on my shoulder, like he needed the contact just as much as I did.

"She always that brave?" I asked quietly, nodding toward Emi.

Kian glanced down at her, his whole face softening. "Braver than me most days."

Emi looked up at that, grinning. "I'm right here, y'know."

I laughed. "Sorry. We were just talking about how cool you are."

"Well, obviously," she said, flipping a page. "Also, I drew this."

She held up the notebook again, this time showing us a very sparkly, very stick-figure-heavy drawing of four people: a tall one with brown hair (definitely Kian), one with long curls and a round belly (me), a tiny figure with pigtails (herself), and a baby in what looked like... a flying crib?

Kian squinted. "Is the baby in a rocket?"

"It's a hovering cot," she said seriously. "In case she wants to fly."

"Well, that's fair," I said. "She's got places to be."

Emi beamed at that, clearly proud.

The door creaked upstairs and Kian stiffened again—but it was just the sound of it clicking shut. His da must've gone to sleep, or passed out. Either way, he didn't come back down.

"You can stay here longer, right?" Emi asked, voice hopeful, eyes on me now.

I glanced at Kian, and he nodded before I could even answer.

"Yeah," I said softly. "As long as you want me here."

She leaned her head against my side and yawned. "Cool. I like when you're here. It's less quiet."

Kian raised an eyebrow. "Oi, what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you talk to yourself a lot when she's not around," Emi said through a sleepy smirk.

I laughed again, and he rolled his eyes but didn't deny it.

A few minutes later, she drifted off right there between us, her hand still in mine, the glitter pen clutched in the other.

Kian looked at me over the top of her head. "I want this," he said quietly. "All of it. Her. You. The baby. A real life."

"You're building it," I whispered. "Bit by bit."

His eyes shone a little, and for once, I didn't think it was from stress or pressure or exhaustion.

It was hope. The real kind.

And for the first time in ages, sitting on a threadbare couch in a house that didn't feel like home, I knew we were making one anyway.