The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Chapter 203: Roses And Kisses

Jason’s POV

She kissed me back.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

I was out of the danger zone. No more silent treatment. No more side glances filled with disappointment. She kissed me—really kissed me—and I felt something shift. Like I had been holding my breath for months and didn’t realize it until that moment.

I should thank the pregnancy.

Not that I planned it this way—not that I’d ever use our unborn child as some kind of redemption arc—but if I’m being honest... it’s the only reason I’ve been given this second chance. And I’ve been holding on to it with both hands, afraid that if I let go for even a second, she’d remember why she started hating me in the first place.

But lately, it feels like I’m finally doing something right.

She lets me hold her now.

Lets me cuddle her—which is wild, because the woman I married would’ve rolled her eyes and scoffed at the word "cuddle" like it was an insult to her pride. My ice queen of a wife used to flinch at affection unless it was perfectly timed or precisely needed.

Now?

Now she leans into me without asking.

She lets her head rest against my chest when she’s too tired to sit up on her own. She lets me wrap my arms around her swollen belly at night like we’re some Hallmark movie couple pretending sleep isn’t a battle of blankets and backaches.

And that kiss?

That was the beginning of something new.

Something old, too.

I didn’t think we’d ever make it back to this place—to this version of us where I get to hope instead of fear. For a long time, I thought our story was winding down. Divorce papers seemed inevitable. A quiet split. A polite goodbye.

But now...

Now I’m looking forward.

Now I’m thinking about nurseries and stroller models and the way she hums under her breath when she’s folding tiny baby clothes.

Can you fall in love again and again with the same person?

Because that’s what I’ve been doing lately.

Every day, it’s something new. The way her voice softens when she talks to the baby. The way she mumbles my name in her sleep. The way she lights up when I bring her the exact snack she was craving—even though she swears she didn’t ask for anything.

I’ve always found her beautiful. Always.

But now?

Now she’s something else entirely.

Pregnancy has made her softer, sure—but also stronger. More radiant. More real. There’s a glow to her, a fierceness beneath all the complaints about swollen ankles and backaches.

Even when she stands in front of the mirror and scowls.

"I’m huge," she’ll mutter, poking at her stomach like it betrayed her.

"Fat," she’ll whisper like a confession, as if I’m supposed to argue. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

"Ugly," she’ll say on the worst days, eyes rimmed with tears and frustration.

And I want to tell her the truth. That she’s never looked more beautiful. That the curve of her belly, the flush in her cheeks, the light in her eyes—it’s all perfect. That if she saw herself through my eyes, she’d never doubt herself again.

But I don’t say it.

Because she’d cry harder. And I’m trying—really trying—not to make her cry.

So instead, I reach for the backup plan.

Chocolate and biscuits.

Her favorite ones. I keep them stocked now like medicine.

She takes them every time, no hesitation.

And after the first bite—always the first bite—she turns to me, eyes narrowed like she’s figured out the secret to the universe and it’s me.

"You’re the one making me fat," she accuses.

I don’t deny it. I just nod and hand her another piece, because she says it every week like clockwork. And every week, I survive the ritual.

It’s a small price to pay for getting to be close to her again.

After all, she’s the one doing all the carrying—literally.

She’s the one giving up her body, her comfort, her peace of mind.

The least I can do is offer her chocolate and pretend I’m not melting every time she smiles at me like we’re nineteen again and in love for the first time.

Truth is?

I think I’m more in love with her now than I’ve ever been.

And I don’t need her to say it back.

Not yet.

Just watching her accept me again, inch by inch, is enough.

For now.

*******

After that kiss...

God help me, I haven’t been able to stop.

Not that she’s complained. I mean, she startles every time—like I’ve caught her off guard—but then she kisses me back. Every time. Soft and slow at first, then deeper. Like she’s testing the waters, and I’m holding my breath waiting for her to pull away.

But she never does.

So I keep stealing them.

Kisses.

In the kitchen while she’s making tea.

In the hallway when she’s waddling back from the bathroom, half asleep.

In bed, when the lights are off and we’re pretending we’re not still learning how to share a space again.

They’re never planned.

I never lean in with the full intention of it. It just... happens. Like I see her, and my chest gets tight, and next thing I know my hand’s brushing her cheek and my lips are on hers. And even though I know I probably should ask—should talk to her about it, make sure it’s okay—my body keeps moving like it knows something I don’t.

And it’s always just kisses.

Nothing more.

I haven’t pushed for more, haven’t tried. And maybe that’s weird, considering how long it’s been, and how long I’ve wanted her, but it’s not like that right now. Not with her. Not in this fragile little window we’ve stumbled into. She’s letting me in, and I’m scared if I ask for too much, I’ll be right back on the couch with silence for company.

And the truth?

I don’t want to ruin this.

I don’t want to mess up the us we’re building again. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s a quiet, delicate thing that exists only in the space between those kisses.

Because we never talk about it.

Not the kisses.

Not what they mean.

Not what comes next.

She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t bring it up either. It’s like there’s an unspoken rule between us—we don’t label the things that feel too good. We don’t ask the questions that might break the spell.

And I’m okay with that.

At least for now.

I can live off the way she leans into me when I kiss her. The way her hand will rest lightly against my chest like she’s knowing what it felt like to love. Like maybe—just maybe—she does.

And I tell myself not to hope.

Not too much.

But I’m a fool, and hope has a way of creeping in through the cracks she left in me.

So I keep kissing her.

And maybe one day, she’ll kiss me first.

Maybe one day, she’ll whisper the words I’ve been dying to hear since the day everything fell apart.

But until then, I’ll take what she gives.

Because when she kisses me back, it doesn’t feel like forgiveness.

It feels like home.