The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Ella’s POV

The first time he kissed me, I froze.

Not because I didn’t want it—God, that was the confusing part. I froze because I did want it. Because I wasn’t supposed to. Because we were still technically broken, just trying to be civil for the sake of the tiny life growing inside me.

But when his lips touched mine, soft and cautious, something in me cracked.

Something I’d sealed up a long time ago.

And I kissed him back.

Now he does it all the time.

Quick little kisses when I least expect them.

On the forehead while I’m brushing my teeth.

On the lips when I’m carrying a plate to the sink.

In bed, when he thinks I’m half-asleep and won’t remember.

I always pretend to be surprised.

Maybe I am, a little.

Not by the kiss itself, but by how much I’ve come to crave them.

But we never talk about it. Not once. Not even after the first one.

And maybe that’s the safest way. Because if we do talk about it, one of us might say something that makes it stop. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

It’s strange. He touches me with this gentle, almost reverent kind of care. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

And it’s working.

The walls I built around my heart are softening.

Sometimes I catch him looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing in the world—and I want to believe it, but then I glance at my swollen belly and my stretch marks and the way I can barely see my feet anymore, and I feel ridiculous.

Huge.

Bloated.

Like a balloon just waiting to pop.

And when I start crying over it (because hormones are hell), he never rolls his eyes or tells me I’m being dramatic. He just hands me chocolate and my favorite biscuits and lets me sob into a pillow like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

He never says the sweet things I think I want to hear.

But somehow, I know he’s thinking them.

And that’s enough.

I don’t know where we stand. I don’t know if this is a beginning or just a very pretty intermission before the end. But I know one thing:

Every time he kisses me, it feels less like a mistake...

And more like a memory we’re trying to rewrite.

Maybe we’re not who we used to be.

But maybe—just maybe—we’re becoming something better.

I don’t know what’s happening to me lately.

No, scratch that—I do. It’s the hormones. The cravings.

And not for food.

I used to roll my eyes at women who said pregnancy made them horny. I figured they were exaggerating, or maybe just lucky enough not to be puking their guts out all day. But now? I get it. I feel it. I’m living it.

And poor Jason... he has no idea.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s pretending not to notice the way I squirm a little when he kisses me goodnight. The way my eyes follow him when he changes his shirt. The way I suddenly can’t get enough of his scent—clean soap, warm skin, a hint of whatever cologne he used to wear back when we were in campus.

The kisses haven’t helped.

In fact, they’ve made it worse.

They used to feel like tests. Little silent check-ins—are we okay now? Can I come closer? But now they feel like fuel to a fire I don’t know how to put out.

He kisses me and walks away like he didn’t just set off a full-body reaction inside me. Like he didn’t just leave me clinging to the edge of sanity, pulse racing, thighs clenched.

And I let him.

Because neither of us has said a word about it.

Because I’m scared that if I ask for more, he’ll stop altogether.

But last night... last night I almost broke.

He kissed me in the kitchen, right after handing me the last biscuit. A soft, sweet kiss that lingered just a little too long. His hand brushed my belly first—like he always does now—and then settled on my hip. Gentle. Familiar.

I leaned into it. Leaned into him.

And when he pulled back, I didn’t let him go.

He looked at me, confused at first. Then cautious. Like he wasn’t sure if I meant it or if this was one of those hormone-driven emotional whirlwinds he was learning to survive.

But I meant it. God help me, I meant it.

I wanted his hands on me. I wanted to remember what it felt like to want and be wanted. I wanted to reclaim the parts of me that didn’t belong to the baby—or to the past we were still trying to fix.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t have to.

Because my body was already speaking for me.

And the way he looked at me—wide-eyed, tense, and just a little bit wrecked—I knew he heard it loud and clear.

We didn’t do anything. Not that night.

But we both walked away a little more breathless than before.

If this keeps up...

I don’t think we’ll be walking away next time.

Jason’s POV

She was watching me again.

Not just watching—looking at me like I was something to eat.

And God, I wanted to be devoured.

It started small. A brush of her fingers against mine when I handed her the remote. The way she sat a little closer on the couch, curled up but restless, like her own skin wasn’t fitting right. And those eyes—dark, wide, hungry in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.

"Is it hot in here?" she mumbled, fanning herself.

It wasn’t. But I said nothing. Just nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

She stood up, slow and heavy with the weight of our baby, her belly round and beautiful in the loose shirt she wore. One of mine. Her thighs peeked out beneath it, bare and soft and full.

I was done for.

"I can’t sleep," she said. "Too much on my mind."

"Want to talk about it?" I asked, because I had to at least pretend I wasn’t staring at her like I’d forgotten how to breathe.

She didn’t answer. Just crossed the room, stopped right in front of me, and looked down.

"You’re not going to kiss me?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

I blinked. "I wasn’t sure if you—"

"Jason," she interrupted, her hands sliding onto my shoulders, "just shut up and kiss me."

So I did.

There was nothing soft about it this time. No hesitant brushing of lips. No slow re-entry. This wasn’t forgiveness—this was need.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging, guiding me closer. I pulled her into my lap, careful, so fucking careful with her belly between us, but she didn’t seem to care. She just moaned into my mouth and shifted until she found the pressure she wanted.

And when she moved—grinding, needy, gasping—I lost my mind.

She was so warm, so ready, so damn sure of what she wanted. And what she wanted was me. Her husband. The man who had almost lost her.

"Tell me to stop," I rasped, forehead pressed to hers, shaking from how hard I was holding back.

"I’m not going to," she whispered.

And that was it.

I carried her to bed with her legs wrapped around my waist, her lips at my throat. Every second was fire. Every breath was soaked in all the longing I had buried for months. I kissed every inch of her like I was trying to remember it—because I was. I worshipped her like the miracle she was.

And when I finally made love to her, it wasn’t careful anymore.

It was desperate. Reverent. A reunion and a reckoning.

She cried after. Not because she was sad. Just overwhelmed. Full.

"I craved this," she said.

"I’m yours," I told her, kissing the tears from her cheeks.

But deep down, I knew...

We’d just found our way back.