The sound of violent retching woke me up. “Chance?” I sat up in bed, my head fuzzy, to find Chance’s side of the bed cold. I blinked blearily down at the alarm clock. Not quite six in the morning. I fumbled with the covers tangling up my legs and when I finally yanked them free, I hurried down the hall.

Sure enough, Chance was hunched over the toilet bowl, his head bowed. The smell of vomit tingled in my nose, but I went to his side and gently rubbed his back. “You okay, baby?” Stupid question, of course. Obviously he wasn’t—morning sickness was a bitch.

“Ugh.” He moaned low and dabbed at his mouth with a wad of toilet paper. “Little one doesn’t like the pizza we had for dinner, I guess. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“Don’t be.” I kissed the top of his head, then flushed the toilet for him, if anything else to get rid of that sour stink. “Do you feel any better? I bought ginger candies at the store last weekend and I’m pretty sure we still have some Sprite and ginger ale in the fridge?” Ginger ale had helped big time whenever Charlie felt ill.

Chance rubbed his stomach and made a face. “Maybe a small glass? And some buttered toast?”

“Of course, babe. I don’t think either of us are going back to bed, so c’mon. I’ll make you a nest of pillows and blankets on the couch. We can spend the day watching stupid comedy sitcoms.” I squeezed his shoulder gently.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Nah, I’ll blow the day off. Sick day. I’m my own boss, pretty much, so I can do that.” I grinned. Spend the day cuddling with my mate? I didn’t mind at all.

I stuck a couple of slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster and pushed the button down, then busied myself with filling a small glass with ice. I cracked open a can of ginger ale and poured it slowly, so that the bubbles didn’t overflow. Not wanting to waste the rest of it, I took a swig right from the can. The sweet fizz tickled my nose.

The toast popped up, perfectly browned. I plated it and grabbed a knife out of the silverware drawer, then spread a thin layer of butter over both slices. Leaving the plate on the counter, I gathered up as many pillows and blankets as I could find in the linen closet and began to arrange them on the couch.

Chance shuffled into the living room while I was busy making his nest. His hazel eyes held such a loving softness that my stomach flip-flopped. I smiled at him, then patted the pillow. “Come snuggle in. I’ve got your toast ready.”

“I… Thank you, Hux.” He collapsed into the pile of bedding with a sigh. I went to fetch his breakfast, tucking the half-empty can of ginger ale between my arm and my chest as I balanced the plate and his glass. I set them down on the coffee table, easily within reach, then flopped down beside him.

“All we need now is a notebook and a couple of pens,” I announced.

He tilted his head. “What for?”

“Hangman.” A grin stole over my face. Charlie and I spent a lot of time passing a binder back and forth, coming up with the weirdest things for the other to guess. Of course, our answers typically turned naughty, but the laughter was the best part.

Chance giggled and leaned his head against my shoulder. “You’re amazing.”

“I try.”

I turned the TV on, but kept the volume at a low murmur, flipping through the stations while Chance nibbled gingerly at the corner of his buttered toast. I paused at the sound of little feet pattering down the hall and laughed softly. “Busted.”

“What you doing, Daddy?” Dresden’s voice was bright and one hundred percent wide awake. He peered at Chance, who was wrapped up in blankets, and his face puckered in worry. “What’s wrong, Uncle Chance? Are you sick? Does your tummy hurt? Daddy always gives me toast when my tummy hurts.”

Chance nibbled on his lip, trying to hide a smile. Dresden looked so earnest. He ruffled the toddler’s hair, then patted the cushion between us. “Yeah, my tummy hurts, but the toast is making it better. Your daddy is a very good doctor.”

Dresden beamed and climbed up onto the couch. “Can we watch cartoons?”

I laughed. “Straight to the point. I like a man who knows what he wants.” I pushed a few buttons and a moment later, the bright colors of a cartoon about a talking dog filled the screen. Dresden bounced in place, making the couch squeak. “You like this show?”

He bobbed his head. “Yep! Daddy, my tummy doesn’t hurt, but can I have toast too?”

“You strike a hard bargain, kiddo. You want chocolate milk with that?”

“Yes please!”

“One chocolate milk and some buttered toast, coming right up,” I drawled, winking at Chance.

We spent the day lounging on the couch, watching endless episodes of mind-rotting educational kid’s shows. Whenever the theme songs would play, Chance’s nose wrinkled. I leaned in and kissed the scowl right off his face. “Better get used to it, babe,” I teased him, gently poking his belly. “We’re in for many, many more years of Paw Patrol.”

Chance’s shoulders shook with a laugh. “Lucky us.”

“It’s not that bad, you guys,” Soren scoffed from the kitchen, poking his head through the doorway. The buttery smell of scrambled eggs wafted out, making my stomach rumble and I realized, all I’d had for breakfast was half a can of ginger ale. Not exactly nutritional.

“Can you make me a plate, bro?” I called out. “Pretty please, with sugar on top?”

“Want me to eat it for you, too?” he retorted.

“I think I can manage that part.”

“Drezzy, you want some eggs?” Soren asked.

Dresden bounced off the couch and made a beeline for the kitchen. “Can I have cheese? And ketchup?”

“On your eggs? Sure. C’mon, why don’t you help me make toast.”

“Yay, I get to help!”

At the same time, Chance and I made a grab for the remote. Chance snatched it up with a giggle, then pushed the power button. We were saved from the evil cartoons. “Silence. Glorious silence,” he whispered blissfully.

He bumped his head against my shoulder. I ran my fingers through his thick hair, tugging gently at the strands. Right then, his stomach chose to let out a loud rumble. I chuckled. “Hey, Sor? You might wanna make a few extra eggs.”

“Let’s just hope the baby likes it,” Chance murmured.

“Everybody likes eggs,” I said, matter-of-fact.

Apparently, the baby didn’t get the memo.