Golden Luckenbooth

Twenty-Two

Coming home after a long day of work to the knowledge that Harry is not only in Scotland but also in my home is a balm to my soul. Before entering, I stomp around outside to clear my feet of the snow, watching as my pups copy my movements, knocking some of the white stuff off their golden feet. I step inside to a warm and cosy kitchen with the smell of roast wafting in the air.

My stomach growls. "Shhhh, little one. You just ate an entire tin of homemade biscuits from Mrs. Greig." We'd been out checking the Greigs' herd of sheep for hoof rot, finding none thankfully. The biscuits had served as both lunch and snack since I'd done an unscheduled house call for Tawny, Mrs. Pomfrey's no-longer–and-actually-never pregnant cat.

"Since you spayed the both of them, they've been a delight in the house," Mrs. Pomfrey had reported about Tawny and the new kitten, Delilah, "and Tawny doesn't wander around outside much at all."

Breathing deeply of the scents, I listen for where Harry might be in the house, but there's silence. His vehicle is still outside, but perhaps he's gone for a walk over to Ellis' or to the church to play the piano. Not gonna lie. The memory of him leaving when Ellis and Jamie returned haunts me a little.

Might as well take a shower. No need to put in my cervical cap – both because it's unlikely there will be any sex, but also because it's really rare for humans to get pregnant when they're already carrying a child. Then again, it wouldn't surprise me if I were one of those rare cases. As the dogs curl up on the floor in front of the fire Harry has lit, I climb the stairs, my weariness from the first trimester no longer weighing me down.

Entering my bedroom, I find Harry curled up on my bed, his shoes on the floor nearby. Catching my breath, I can't help but observe him. His arms are crossed, and I wonder if he's cold. His socks are from his own merchandise, featuring "Treat People" on one foot and "With Kindness" on the other. His facial hair has grown in again, and it looks like he's keeping it trim. It makes me smile to see it, although I'd prefer it were gone. The spot in between his eyes that can get wrinkly and drawn when he's frustrated, emotional, or thinking deeply is smooth now, and I want to reach out and run my thumb across the delicate skin. His hands are devoid of rings, and it makes him look vulnerable, unguarded. That damn hair clip is holding back his bangs, and I desperately want to remove it and allow his curly locks to fall forward, but I daren't as I'm sure it would wake him.

I wonder if our child will have his fluttery eyelashes or delicate lips. Perhaps our kid will be able to sing like its daddy or laugh fully and completely when something strikes it as funny. Will they have a smile that lights up the whole room? A sense of fashion that further blurs the lines society has set? An English accent or a Scottish one?

When he stirs, I realise I've been watching him well beyond a reasonable length of time. One eye fluttering open, he focuses immediately on me.

"Hi." It's cute – both his husky voice and the single word.

"Hi," I return shyly.

"Checking me out?" He smirks, and my knickers catch on fire and melt from my body. Metaphorically of course. I remain fully clothed.

"No," I scoff, but we both know I'm lying. "You're going to be a great dad," I announce, as though there was doubt in anyone's mind other than his.

An inscrutable expression passes over his features, and he grimaces, "Not like I have a choice."

"Ouch." My lower lip juts out in a pout.

Immediately, he's chagrined, sitting up in the bed and reaching for me. I allow him to pull me to his lap where I settle sideways on his thighs, my shoulder near his heart.