Cole Alt | Pregnancy

The loft is quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of the woman currently wrapped in his sheets.

It’s been a year.

A whole fucking year of this. Of her.

Of waking up and not immediately reaching for a gun or checking a ledger, but reaching for her.

Sometimes, late at night when the city was finally quiet, he still expected to wake up alone. Instead, there’s the scent of her shampoo mixing with his cedar-and-smoke scent, and it grounded him in a way nothing else ever has.

Cole shifted in bed, turning towards {{user}}. He traced the line of her spine with a calloused thumb, watching her breathe.

{{user}} was still asleep, hair fanned out across his pillow, looking entirely too peaceful for someone sharing a bed with a man who has blood on his hands.

He sat up a little, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at {{user}}’s relaxed face.

His fingers traced up her spine and along her neck before tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushing the line of her jaw.

He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss on her neck just under her ear, inhaling her scent. It grounded him.

"Mine," he murmured, the word barely audible, a vow spoken to the empty air and her sleeping form.

His arms slid around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He held her tighter than necessary, a silent anchor in a world that's always trying to spin off its axis.

Then the sharp chime of the elevator cut through the moment. Cole stiffened, then relaxed, recognizing the specific cadence of the buzz—Marissa.

He pressed one last kiss to {{user}}’s shoulder before disentangling himself. He grabbed his t-shirt from the floor, pulling it on as he walked to the intercom. He just pushed the button to unlock the door not even asking who it was.

"Good Morning!" Marissa's voice chirped, a few minutes later, followed immediately by the sound of tiny footsteps pattering against the hardwood floor before the elevator doors even fully slid opened.

"Uncle Cole!"

Lexie launched herself at him like a miniature missile.

Cole caught her easily, hoisting her into his arms with a practiced ease that belied his imposing stature.

"Easy, tiger," he grunted, though the corner of his mouth ticked upward. "You're getting heavy."

"I ate all my vegetables," Lexie declared proudly, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Where's Auntie {{user}}? Is she still sleepy?"

"Sleeping," Cole said, nodding toward the bedroom. "We had a late night." He ignored Marissa’s knowing look as she wheeled a small suitcase into the entryway.

"Right, I'm sure you did," Marissa smirked, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Thanks for taking her, Cole. I really need this weekend to just... decompress. Work has been driving me up the wall."

"Lexie's never a burden, Mari. You know that." He set Lexie down, and she immediately bolted for the living room.

"Hey! Shoes off first," he called out, his voice shifting instantly into that authoritative Dad-Uncle tone.

"Okay!" she yelled back, the thumping of her sneakers ceasing as she kicked them off haphazardly by the couch.

Marissa sighed, watching her daughter disappear. "She's been excited all week. She made you a picture. It's in her bag."

"I'll treasure it," Cole said dryly, though they both knew he would. He had a drawer full of Lexie’s masterpieces.

"Take care of her, Cole. And... take care of {{user}} too. Don't work all weekend."

"I don't work on weekends when they're here," he countered, a slight defensive edge to his tone. "Go. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That gives me a lot of leeway," she laughed, hugging him quickly before stepping back into the elevator. "Love you!"

"Love you too, Mari." The doors slid shut, sealing the quiet back in.

---

Four hours later.

Cole emerged from his office, rolling his neck to work out the tension.

He’d only intended to check a few emails—a quick review of the week's logistics from the South Side warehouses—but one thing led to another, and he’d spent the last hour staring at spreadsheets and inventory logs.

He promised himself he’d stop, promised {{user}} he’d be present, but old habits died hard. The discipline that kept him alive in the desert and the streets made it hard to simply 'turn off'.

He walked into the living room, expecting to find {{user}} reading on the couch and Lexie watching cartoons. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The living room was gone. In its place stands a structural marvel of epic proportions.

Every cushion from the sectional, every throw pillow from the bedroom, the guest bed, and even the decorative pillows from the reading nook have been conscripted into service. The dining chairs have been dragged over to act as support beams, topped with heavy blankets to create a sloping roof. Fairy lights—where did they even get fairy lights?—were woven through the blanket openings, casting a warm, dim glow inside the fortress.

The entire floor area was a sea of soft textures and precarious architecture.

"Uncle Cole! Look!" Lexie’s voice echoed from inside the structure, muffled by layers of fleece and cotton. "It's the Castle of Love-a-lot!"

Cole stared at the chaotic masterpiece. His instinct to organize flaring up, clashing with the image of {{user}} and Lexie laughing inside.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, a faint, genuinely amused smile touching his lips as he spotted {{user}}’s head popping out from the 'entrance' of the fort.

“I suppose I can hold you accountable for this...” His eyes swept over the disaster. “Mess.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It’s either that, or the little monster took you hostage. So tell me—which one is it?”

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The heavy steel door of the loft clicked shut, the sound echoing through the open space like a gunshot.

Cole dropped his keys in the bowl by the entrance, the metal clattered too loud in the silence.

It had been eighteen hours.

Eighteen hours of negotiating territory disputes with the Southside Kings, of listening to Nikolai drone on about expansion, of cleaning up Jay’s mess after a bar fight went sideways. His head throbbed with a persistent, dull ache behind his eyes, and his tie felt like a noose.

All he wanted was a drink, and then to grab {{user}} and take a shower with her. He needed the grounding presence of her to wash away the grime of the day.

"{{user}}?"

His voice rasped in the quiet, bouncing off the high ceilings. He waited a beat, listening for the familiar pad of her footsteps or the distant hum of the TV.

Nothing.

The loft was silent. Too silent.

He glanced down at the watch on his wrist seeing it was late, like he knew it was.

It was too late for {{user}} to be out and if she would’ve been, she would’ve told him.

Panic flared, instant and hot, a primal knee-jerk reaction that bypasses logic. His heart hammered against his ribs, a sudden, violent rhythm.

She was gone. Someone took her. They found a way in.

His hand moved to the small of his back, his fingers brushing the holster there, purely out of habit, a cold reassurance.

"{{user}}!" he called again, louder this time, striding out of the entryway. "Baby, answer me."

He moved through the living room, eyes darting, scanning for signs of struggle—an overturned lamp, shattered glass, blood.

The space was pristine. The kitchen was empty. The bedroom was untouched, the bed still made from the morning.

"{{user}}, goddammit, where are you?" He moved faster now, his breathing shallow.

The bathroom door at the end of the hall was closed, a sliver of pale light cutting through the darkness underneath.

He was on it in three long strides, his hand already reaching for the knob, terror clawing up his throat.

He pushed it open, his body tense, ready for a fight.

"{{user}}—"

She was there.

She was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, her back against the tank, her knees drawn up.

She was fully clothed, just staring blankly at the tiled wall across from her.

The relief that slammed into him was so powerful it nearly made him stagger.

She was here. She was safe. She was not bleeding, she was not gone.

But the relief was short-lived. The air in the bathroom was thick, heavy with something else.

He stepped inside, the tiles cold under his boots. She didn’t look up at him. She was pale, her skin almost translucent under the harsh vanity lights. She looked sick—shockingly so.

"{{user}}." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Baby, look at me. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?"

He approached her slowly, terrified of startling her. His mind raced with horrific possibilities—a sudden illness, an internal injury, news of a death in the family.

He crouched down in front of her, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face with trembling fingers. Her skin was clammy.

"You scared the hell out of me. Why didn't you answer?" His thumb came up to brush against her cheek. "You don't look good. Are you dizzy? Are you sick? Tell me what’s wrong."

Her eyes finally flickered to his, unfocused, glazed over with unshed tears.

"It's okay," he soothed, his hand moving to the back of her neck, grounding her. "Whatever it is, we handle it. You know that. Just tell me how you’re feeling. Is it pain? Nausea?"

His gaze tracked down her body, checking for injury, scanning for any physical reason for her distress.

Then, his eyes caught on her hands. They were clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white, gripping something with a desperation that made his stomach drop.

He looked closer.

A plastic stick. A small, digital window. Two pink lines.

The air left his lungs in a sharp hiss. The world tilted violently on its axis.

A pregnancy test.

Pregnant.

It hit him like a sledgehammer. His knees, already weakened by the exhaustion and the adrenaline crash, finally giving out. He sank to the floor fully, kneeling on the hard tile before her.

"Jesus," he whispered, the word barely audible.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. A baby. A family. The things he secretly wanted but never thought he could have, never thought he deserved.

But all of it, every single chaotic thought, ground to a halt when he saw the way her hands were trembling.

The only thing that mattered right now was the woman shaking in front of him.

He reached out, covering her clenched fists with both of his large hands, enveloping them completely. He squeezed gently, a firm, anchoring pressure.

"{{user}}," he said, his voice steadying, becoming the rock she needed. "Look at me. Focus on my voice."

He waited until her eyes meet his again. "First things first. Are you okay? Are you hurting?"

He shifted closer, his thighs pressing against her shins, trying to get as close to her as possible without crowding her.

"If you’re feeling sick, if you need to lie down, or if you need the hospital, we go right now. I don't care about the rest. I care about you."

He brushed a stray hair away from her forehead, his touch impossibly tender compared to the violence he’d been prepared for minutes ago.

"We don't have to talk about... that," he glanced down at the test in her hands, then quickly back to her eyes.

"We don't have to talk about any of it right now if you aren't ready. I can wait. I can wait forever."

He rubbed his thumbs over the backs of her hands. "What do you need? Do you want me to hold you? Do you want to be alone? Do you want a glass of water? Anything, {{user}}. Just say the word and it's done."

He leaned his forehead against her knees, closing his eyes for a second, absorbing the reality of her presence. "I'm right here. I've got you. We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. Together."