The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Jason POV

I don’t know how long we laid there like that—her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy circles on her back—but I could’ve stayed there forever. Everything felt quiet, calm. Like the storm we’d barely survived had finally passed.

Then I felt it.

A soft thump against my stomach.

I froze. "Was that...?"

Ella pulled back slightly, a sleepy smile blooming across her face. "Mhm."

"The baby?" I whispered, because suddenly even speaking felt sacred.

She nodded and took my hand, guiding it to rest fully over the curve of her belly. And just as I was about to tell myself maybe I imagined it—

There it was again. A kick. Stronger this time. Sure. Real.

My throat tightened. "Holy shit."

Ella laughed softly, her voice hoarse from sleep and... last night. "Don’t curse in front of the baby."

"Right. Sorry. Holy—uh—shoot." But the grin stretching across my face was unstoppable. "He kicked. He actually kicked."

I looked up at her and, for a second, forgot how to breathe.

She was glowing. Like, actually glowing—not the "you’re sweating" type of glowing. But the kind that made her look divine. Her hair was messy, her lips swollen, her eyes soft and glassy in that way she gets when her heart’s full but her words aren’t ready yet.

And maybe that’s what love looks like, I thought. This woman—this fierce, brilliant, emotional, maddening woman—carrying a life we created and still somehow choosing to be here with me, despite everything.

"I love you," I said before I could stop myself.

Her eyes widened, and for a split second I thought maybe I’d gone too far. But then—

Ella’s POV

I didn’t mean to jump him.

Really.

In my defense, it started with an apology. A real one. The kind where Jason actually looked me in the eyes and spoke without deflecting, without trying to be funny or defensive. Just... raw honesty.

He admitted to the bet.

Not all of it—thank God, because I might have actually murdered him with a pillow if he mentioned anything about digging into my darkest secrets or photos—but enough to make my heart stop. He said it was stupid, that it was immature, that he was immature. That he started it. That he hated himself for it now.

And then—God help me—he said he fell in love with me despite the mess he created. That I wasn’t a game. That somewhere between all my sass and fire and stubborn walls, I became the one thing he couldn’t lie to himself about.

And maybe it was the hormones. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me like I still mattered, like he saw me beneath the emotional wreck I’d become... but I kissed him.

And we didn’t stop.

One kiss turned into a tumble onto the sheets, a breathless blur of soft apologies and lingering touches. That first round was slow, gentle. Like he was scared I’d disappear if he touched me wrong. He whispered that he loved me into my neck and I hated how much I wanted to believe it.

And after?

God, I thought I’d be satisfied. But no. My body had other plans.

Stupid hormones.

We went again. And again. And then—well, I lost count somewhere between him kissing the swell of my belly and me clinging to him like my life depended on it.

This morning, I woke up sore, exhausted... and honestly, a little smug.

Jason, on the other hand, looked like he’d been hit by a truck. A very attractive, satisfied truck—but a truck nonetheless.

"Good morning, Mrs. Cravings," he grumbled as I handed him his coffee. "Did you sleep well, or are we going for round four before breakfast?"

I blushed and smacked his arm. "Shut up."

He smirked, sipping the coffee like he hadn’t been begging for mercy just a few hours ago. "I’m just saying, I’m starting to think it’s not food cravings I need to worry about with you."

"I hate you."

"No, you don’t."

And he was right. I didn’t.

I crawled back into bed with him, curling into his side, my head tucked into his chest like it belonged there. And it did. Somehow, after everything, it still did.

He slid his hand over my belly, rubbing slow, gentle circles like he always did now. It was our morning routine. A quiet little moment of calm before the chaos of the day started.

But then—suddenly—his hand froze.

I blinked up at him. "What?"

He didn’t answer.

And then I felt it.

A tiny, fluttering kick. Right beneath his palm.

My breath hitched. "Was that—?"

Jason’s eyes went wide. "Do it again," he whispered to my stomach, like our child could actually hear him.

Another nudge. A soft one. Barely there.

We both gasped.

It was the first time. The first time we felt our baby move.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Jason’s fingers wiped a tear from my cheek.

"Ella," he murmured, voice tight, "he kicked. He kicked."

I nodded, laughing through the tears. "I know."

We stayed like that—silent, stunned, wrapped around each other like we were trying to preserve this tiny, perfect moment.

I thought nothing could top last night.

But that little flutter?

That was the moment everything changed.

*******

I don’t know how it happened.

Or when, exactly, it did.

But somewhere between his late-night runs for chocolate, his steady arms wrapped around me during my meltdowns, and the way he whispers to our baby like it’s already the center of his universe...

I started to love him.

And no—this isn’t the pregnancy hormones talking.

It’s not about the cravings or the tears or the unbearable tenderness that seems to sit just behind my ribcage at all times lately.

This is different. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

Real.

Sober.

Unavoidable.

I tried to fight it. God knows I did. I told myself I was just clinging to comfort. To familiarity. To the idea of a "we" because raising a baby alone sounded like walking barefoot across broken glass.

But this? This feeling when Jason brushes my hair behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world...

When he lays next to me at night, fingers lazily tracing patterns on my belly, like he’s mapping out a future...

When he doesn’t run from my chaos—but sits in it with me, waits for the storm to pass, and somehow holds me tighter when it does...

That’s not hormones.

That’s love.

And maybe it’s not the same love we started with. Maybe it’s messier now—bruised in some places, delicate in others.

But it’s ours.

And for the first time in a long time... I want to believe in it again.

I turned to look at him as he lay next to me, half-asleep, one hand still resting over the place where the baby had kicked the morning before like it was his favorite spot. His breathing was slow, peaceful, lips parted just slightly.

I smiled.

God, I really was falling in love with him all over again.

But this time...

I wasn’t scared of it.