When she lets out a quiet snore, I smile. I did some research and found out that most women who are pregnant need around ten hours of sleep a day, and even though she said she’s been sleeping better since she got an eye mask to block out the light in her apartment, every time she comes up to my place, she falls asleep without fail. Like today after a late lunch, because she had breakfast with a friend, she fell asleep thirty minutes into the show I turned on for us to watch and has been out for about an hour—maybe a little longer than that.

I’ve thought about talking to Clay about putting in some kind of motorized blinds for her to use, but I’m selfish as fuck and afraid that if I do that, I won’t see her as often as I do now. Which has been every day since last weekend when I told her about my parents.

Scrubbing my hands down my face, I let my head fall to the back of the couch. I still don’t know why I told her about my mom and dad. It’s not something I’ve spoken about with anyone besides my brothers, and even with them, I’ve avoided the topic for years. Maybe I was testing her, seeing if—when she learned the truth—she’d stop looking at me like I’m somehow important to her. Or maybe I was trying to push her away after the evening we had together with my family, an evening that made me want more with her, more of her.

Whatever the reason, I regretted it immediately and hated myself for shoving my past in her face the way I did.

Lifting my head when her cell starts to ring on the coffee table, I lean forward and pick it up before it can wake her, hitting the side button and sending the call to voicemail when I see it’s Matthew calling. I’ve got to give it to the guy; he is tenacious. Then again, after having her around for the last few weeks, I can understand how hard she’d be to let go of.

But that doesn’t mean his constant calling and texting doesn’t annoy the fuck out of me.

Putting her cell on silent, I drop it back to the table, then turn her way when her soft, sleepy voice asks, “Was that Matthew?”

“Yep,” I mutter, and she rolls her eyes before looking at the TV.

“How many episodes did I miss this time?”

“Only one and a half.”

“We’re never going to make it through this series at the rate I’m going.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t mind rewatching the same episode three times.” I smile, and she laughs while pushing herself up to sit.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“A little after four.”