Curran Walters
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It happened on an ordinary morning.
You were brushing your teeth, humming to yourself, when Clark paused mid-step in the hallway. His head tilted—barely perceptible to anyone else, but you’d have noticed if you’d been looking. He stared through the wall, eyes distant, breath caught in his throat.
Two heartbeats.
One strong and steady—yours. The other… impossibly small, fast, fluttering like a bird’s wings.
He didn’t move for a full minute. Then, slowly, reverently, he placed a hand against the drywall between you and him. His x-ray vision traced your silhouette like a prayer. Inside, something microscopic—new, delicate—had already started growing. His child. Yours. Theirs.
You didn’t know yet.
And suddenly, that terrified him.
He spent the rest of the morning subtly orbiting you. Quietly taking note of how tired you seemed, how you skipped your usual coffee, how your appetite shifted without you thinking twice. Every detail became data in his mind, a pattern emerging before your own body even recognized it.
By the end of the day, you couldn’t so much as reach for a step stool without Clark appearing at your side. Blankets were tucked around you without asking. He made dinner, measured water intake, adjusted the thermostat. He laughed too quickly when you asked what was going on, brushing it off with a kiss to your temple.
But at night, when you were asleep, he lay awake beside you, one hand resting protectively over your stomach.
You didn’t know yet.
But he did.
And with a quiet, awestruck whisper, he said into the dark, “I’ve got you. Both of you.”
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Stormy cuddles with your husband.
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You got overstimulated.
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