The fourteenth of February. It was a day that was usually reserved for couples to have an excuse to act excessively saccharine toward each other, but on this Valentine’s Day, all I wanted to do was bludgeon my significant other with a breast pump for impregnating me with a baby that thought it would be a good idea to chill in my uterus an extra thirteen days past his or her due date. I was sitting at the island in the kitchen begrudgingly chomping on a bowl of granola as the chilly winter sun popped up from the horizon, while I made a point to glare at Harry as he walked into the kitchen wearing his scrubs and juggling an orange between his two hands.
“Don’t give me that look,” he articulated, knitting his eyebrows, fed up with the fact that I had been giving him this same look for the last five days or so.
“This is your fault. I’ll give you whatever look I want,” I grumbled, the granola and milk slurring and blending my words together. Despite their potential for incomprehensibility, I could see that Harry understood what I had said, based on the conspicuous narrowing of his eyes.
“This is not my fault,” he retorted, pointing at me as he did, “You know, you’ve been nice to me the past nine months and now, well, you’ve just been really mean the past few days,” he said, cowering a bit as he waited for my response, exhaustingly placing his hands on his hips. He stood at the other side of the island, moving his palms from his hips to grip the edge of the counter as I glared up at him. I knew I was, well, quite frankly, being a total bitch to him, but I knew he would just sit there and take it like the little bitch he is.
“Since when did you have a vagina? Ball up,” I grumpily replied, returning my focus to my breakfast, slurping the milk from the bowl.
“Christ, Y/N! You got this way the last time, too,” he exasperated, throwing his arms up in the air in defeat. I got up from my seat, taking my empty bowl with me and placing it in the sink before walking over to stand in front of Harry.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I’ll try to be more cheerful about the fact that I’m carrying an extra eight pounds of human that keeps getting bigger every day he or she decides, ‘eh, maybe tomorrow,’. And about the fact that since he or she doesn’t want to come out, I’ll probably have to get induced tomorrow, completely ruining my whole birth plan of doing this naturally, and then I have to push this baby out of something that’s usually the size of a grape! And fuck, my boobs feel so big! And I haven’t slept in three fucking days, Christ!” I screeched, completely tired of being pregnant and just wanting this baby to get out of my utterly stretched and worn out body. The moment that followed my little outburst was nearly silent apart from the sound of my angered breathing mixed with Harry nonchalantly tearing at the skin of his fruit as I waited for him to respond.
“You done?” he asked without looking at me, concentrating on peeling the orange in his hand before plucking a perfectly portioned slice from the citrus fruit.
“I guess,” I mumbled, my stature slouching in defeat, having let out some of my pent up frustration that had built up from my last hormonal episode, (which was last night when Harry put my jeans in the dryer instead of hanging them up on the wash line). Harry opened up his arms to me and I gladly collapsed into his welcoming embrace, letting my hands hang to my sides, struggling to adjust myself until my big belly finally fit into our little snuggle. His arms were wrapped around me, still managing to peel his orange behind my back, taking one of the brightly colored slices, and holding it up to my lips. I snatched it from his fingers with my teeth, morosely chewing on the pulpy, juicy, orange wedge.
“It’ll all be over tomorrow, at least. You could still go into labor before then,” he offered, trying to comfort me because he knew how much I did not want to be induced before going into labor naturally. He reached down to place his splayed hand across my stomach, feeling the huge bulge from hip to hip before bending down to eye level with my belly button.
