Shawn Mendes imagines

New york

You hadn't told Shawn this. You wanted him to notice, to really feel it the way you had when you first took note of the way your jeans dug into your middle a little deeper.

Even though the bump was tiny. It was still there. And it was just as much Shawn's as it was yours.

You awaited his call where he'd tell you not to bother picking him up at the airport because he'd just Uber. He texted you as he boarded at Heathrow and you'd started cleaning the place up. It wasn't until you were stirring the pasta sauce that you looked up at the clock to see it reading nine that your stomach turned. You tried your luck by shooting him a text.

"Are you okay?" you sent, jaw practically falling to the floor when you saw it actually delivered. Something was up.

You called him.

One ring. Two rings. You bit your nail. Three rings.

"Hello?"

"Shawn, are you alright?" you asked in a bit of a contained panic, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

"Yeah, why?" he asked in a low tone. An unaware tone.

"Um," you paused, raising your eyebrows and resting your elbows on the counter, "where are you?"

You expected him to say he was in the Uber. Or leaving the airport. Or even that he'd just landed.

"I'm in New York," he spoke bluntly, as if you were supposed to have known.

"You're," you paused again, trying to wrap your head around things, "you're in New York?"

"Yeah," he started, "SNL's next weekend."

"Yeah, next weekend," deep breath, "as in seven days from now. Shawn, when the hell are you coming home?"

"We need to rehearse."

"You've been touring."

"But this is a new song."

"Yeah, a song about not being able to have someone," you paused, "God fucking knows who."

"What are you trying to say, here?" Shawn spoke, and you heard rustling in the background. He'd left the room to find somewhere more private, you thought, probably to shout at you. He hated it when you got insecure about this stuff.

"Shawn, I haven't seen you in eight weeks. I've been home, sick, mind you, carrying your child. Our child."

"I realize that," Shawn spoke flatly.

"You've been touring and touring and touring and you're finally done for a little bit, and you don't even mention you're not coming home? Shawn, I thought you were coming home."

"You know I have that performance coming up," he muttered.

"Well fuck me if I don't know every little detail. Jesus Christ, Shawn, it's like I don't even fucking know you anymore," you spoke, tears beginning to spill over. You sniffled, trying your best to gain composure.

"You want me home? Fine, we'll cancel the performance. Is that what you want? Would that make you feel better?" he spoke almost mockingly. You were shocked.

It was silent for a while. You spoke first.

"You don't get it, Shawn," you said, "do what you have to do. I'll be here. I'll always be here. Making your favourite fucking dinner."

He didn't respond. Didn't have to. The guilt was already hitting like a fucking train as his anger subsided.

"Fuck, this kid's not even born yet and already all the two of us have is each other. I'm showing, by the way. There's a bump where your baby is. Good luck with the performance. Maybe I'll see you in December when the South American leg is over."