Work Text:
You are not used to feeling weak.
Nor are you used to feeling tired-at least, not like this. Tiredness is one thing. You can go through fatigue, laugh at it, spit on it, and keep going until you finally collapse in spectacular failure.
But this? This is different.
Your body no longer listens to you. Your limbs feel heavier than they should be, your movements sluggish, and no amount of coffee or sheer stubbornness can shake it off
And you know why.
You’re pregnant.
Pregnant.
You’re not the motherly type. Not at all. The idea of you raising a child seems ridiculous, almost absurd— what kind of guidance could you give another human being? What wisdom could you pass on besides a deep distrust of the world and a sarcastic sense of humor?
To you, kids are just small, drunk people. That sounds both funny and horrifying. There is a day when you think it might be fun to poison the mind of a miniature human with your nonsense, but mostly, it just seems like a lot of work.
Still, here you are.
Growing something small and fragile inside of you.
You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry about it.
You know something is wrong as soon as Stanford stops babbling.
Usually, he can talk for hours-about scientific breakthroughs, anomaly readings, strange creatures that might want to kill him. But ever since you told Fiddleford about the pregnancy, he’s been… quiet.
Not the bad kind of quiet. Just—too much thinking quiet.
And that’s dangerous.
So you wait. Give him space. Let him lose himself in his own thoughts for a while
But at the end of the week, you find him hunched over his workbench, staring blankly at the half-finished scheme as if it had insulted his family.
It's time to step in.
You walk over and rest your chin on his shoulder. “Okay, take it out.”
Stanford barely reacts. “Take out what?”
You squint. “Don’t play dumb. You’re acting weird.”
He sighs, putting down his pen. “You always say I’m acting weird.”
“True,” you admit. “But this time is stranger than usual.” Pulling out a chair, you straddle it backward, crossing your arms on the backrest
“So what’s bothering you? The portal thing? Fiddleford suggesting more weird baby names?”
Stanford exhales, rubbing his face. “It’s not the portal. It’s just…” He hesitated for a moment, his voice trailing off.
“I don’t know how to be a father.”
Oh. So that is what’s bothering him
Stanford stares at his own hands as if they’ve betrayed him. “I spent my whole life on science. To research. To understanding the unexplainable. But this?” He made a faint gesture. “This is completely new territory. And what if I-“ He swallows.
“What if I’m bad at this?”
It’s not just inexperience. It’s self-doubt.
“Ford,” you say gently, “you already know how to be a father. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
Stanford frowns. “I-what?”
You take his hand, intertwining your fingers between his. “You’ve been taking care of me since the first day we met.”
He snorts. “That’s definitely not the same thing-“
“Oh, right?” you challenge him. “Because last time I checked, you’re the one who always makes sure I eat when I’m too focused on work. You were the one who bandaged my wounds whenever I did something stupid. You always worry about me, even when you don’t say it.”
Stanford stares at your intertwined hands, his brow furrowed.
You flashed him a grin. “Face it, Ford. You’ve been dad-ing me this whole time.”
Stanford gives a small snort, a reluctant laugh. “That’s not a verb.”
“Now it is.”
His thumb strokes the back of your hand. “I just… I want to be better than my father”
Your expression softens even more. You know what he means. You’ve heard pieces of his childhood—shared only in vulnerable moments—the expectations that weighed on him, the pressure that crushed him, the disappointment that came with failing to be the son his father wanted him to be.
You squeeze his hand tighter. “Then you’ll get better.”
Stanford hesitates, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, slowly-carefully-he reaches out and places his hand on your stomach.
You freeze.
His touch is so light, almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid of breaking something. He’s always like this these days. Treating you as if you’re made of glass.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be good at this,” he admits. “But I promise I’ll try.”
“That’s all I need, Ford.”
He exhales, his tension easing a little. Just a little, but it was enough “Alright.”
You smile, but a yawn soon escapes. “Jeez, I’m so tired. My legs hurt, so I might as well sleep here” You say playfully and shift slightly to make yourself comfortable, while Stanford? Stanford grunts and stands up, his chair still creaking against the wooden floor even though he tries to stand as quietly as possible.
Before you can protest, he scoops you into his arms. A surprised squeal leaves your lips, and instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck as he lifts you with ease—You’re not surprised at how strong Stanford is, considering this man usually hunts down anomalies in the forests if he doesn’t have something to do in his lab. A small giggle escapes your lips as Stanford carries you toward the bed you share in the corner of the room.
“I can walk, you know.” You have that playful tone in your voice, pressing soft kisses against his neck, Inhaling the familiar scent of pine, sweat, and that faint trace of cologne he always wears.
You hear his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, followed by a quiet sigh, but he not resisting.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know,” you reply with satisfaction.
He slowly lowered you onto the bed, arranging the blankets to ensure you remain warm.
“Aren’t you resting too?” You ask as Stanford bends down to kiss your forehead tenderly. You could feel his smile on your skin. Still tingling even as he pulls back to look at your face.
You melt.
He’s not always affectionate. He doesn’t always open up. But when he’s like this-when he lets himself soften-you want to keep him forever.
“I’ll join you later.” He responds soothingly. He strokes your cheek for a while, before eventually retreating back to his desk.
===
A few hours later and you’ve been rolling around in bed for who knows how many times, trying and failing to sleep.
Everything hurts.
Your lower back. Your legs. Your brain.
Stanford is still awake, hunched over his desk, flipping through old notes. His six-fingered hand holds a pen, writing rapidly, occasionally stopping to adjust his glasses.
You should have been disturbed by the sound of the pen’s strokes, but strangely, it felt soothing.
You sigh, rolling onto your other side, pressing your face into the pillow. “Ford.”
“Hm?” He barely lifts his gaze from the notes.
“I can’t sleep.” A pause. The sound of a pen being put down. Then, finally, he spins his chair around. “Do you need anything?”
You grumble into the pillow. “Yes. A new backbone. Maybe even a different body altogether.”
That made him let out a small chuckle that sounded like a tired but amused version of himself. “Alright. I’ll put in a request to the nearest mad scientist I know.”
You peek over the pillow. “That’s you, genius.”
Stanford smiles. “Exactly.”
He stood up, stretching for a moment before walking over. “All right. What do you need? A heating pad? More pillows?”
“You.”
The word escapes before you can stop it. Your face slowly heats up as you realize what you just said.
Stanford blinks, surprised.
You groan, pressing your face against the pillow again. “Forget it.”
He didn’t.
If anything, he sits beside you, the bed dipping under his weight. There’s a brief hesitation before his hand finds you—gentle, careful. “Come here.”
You make no protest and shift instantly, moving your head into his lap, your hair flowing over his legs like silk.
Stanford hums, his hands moving to run through your hair, his long fingers combing through it.
You sigh.
God, that feels good.
His touch is careful, measured-like everything else he does. But it’s also soothing. Gives a sense of security.
His six-fingered hand rests on the side of your head, his thumb gently rubbing your temple. His other hand finds yours, grasping it tightly, your fingers intertwined.
You stare at your joined hands for a long time.
His sixth finger curls around your hand, holding you from both sides. Like a cage.
It isn’t.
His touch feels like a protector.
“Did I ever mention,” you mutter, your head tilting up to look at him, “that your weird extra fingers make me feel safe.”
Stanford let out a small laugh. “They’re indeed weird. Most people are bothered by them.”
“I meant positively weird,” you say, squeezing his hand lightly.
His grip tightens in return.
“I know,” he says quietly.
Silence fills the room between you.
You close your eyes, focusing on the soft rhythm of his fingers in your hair. The subtle pressure of his hand on yours. You realize that his thumb is rubbing the cold metal that encircles your ring finger. Rubbing the ring he gave you when he proposed.
You remember it as vividly as if it happened yesterday. Your eyes close for a moment, and you chuckle as you try to recall the memory.
Come to think of it, you were never the sentimental type.
You didn’t cry at weddings. You didn’t sigh wistfully when you watched romantic movies. And you never fantasized about a big, dramatic proposal, with rose petals and violin music. You’re just not that kind of person.
So when Stanford Pines-the six-fingered genius who somehow managed to make you fall in love-got down on one knee in the middle of a messy lab, surrounded by piles of unarchived research papers and half-finished inventions, your first thought wasn’t: “oh my God, he’s proposing”.
Your first thought was: "Is he okay?”
Because honestly, he looked like he was about to pass out.
He was red in the face. His glasses were slightly askew. And his hands—both of them—were clutching a small box clutching a small box so tightly that you worried it might just shatter.
“…Ford?” you asked quietly.
Stanford inhaled deeply, exhaling through his nose as if trying to calm himself.
“My dear,” he says, his voice firm but a little shaky.
“I have calculated, with the highest possible precision, the probability of finding another person in this world-or any world-who can understand me like you. The probability is so astronomically small that, for the first time in my life, I am willing to ignore statistics entirely and act on something that cannot be quantified by data.”
Stanford swallowed, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “What I’m trying to say is—I don’t want to imagine a future without you. And although I realize that marriage is an outdated social construct, based on ancient traditions-“
“Ford.”
“—I also realize that you’ve become an irreplaceable variable in my life, and-“
“Ford.”
He finally stopped rambling, looking at you like he was preparing for something.
“You really proposed to me in the lab? Next to a beaker filled with mutagenic slime?”
Stanford glanced to the side, realizing-for the first time-there was a green substance bubbling on the table, too close to his face.
“…In my defense,” he muttered, shifting slightly away from the substance, “I didn’t think much about the logistical aspects.
Of course he didn’t think about it.
You crossed your arms, staring at him from above. He still nervous, that was clear. Stanford might be a genius, but he couldn’t hide his emotions-they were always clearly displayed on his face. It showed in the way his hands shook slightly, the way his brown eyes glanced at you shyly before he turned his gaze to look at the small box in his hand.
He looked like someone who was preparing for rejection.
Rejecting him hadn’t even crossed your mind.
You'd probably put a bullet in your own head before rejecting Stanford Pines—because at that point, it would be clear you'd already lost your mind.
So you just grinned, tilting your head. “Answer me, genius-you actually calculated the probability of finding someone else like me?”
Stanford hesitated for a moment, seemingly a bit hesitant to give his answer. “…Yes.”
Your eyebrows raised. “And the results?”
Stanford sighed, his eyes closed “One in six billion.”
You stared at him. Then-after a long pause-you burst out laughing.
Stanford winced, his head snapping up to see your face “What-“
“Oh God, Ford,” you gasp, bending down slightly and brushing your bangs back. “That was the most Stanford Pines thing I’ve ever heard. You actually crunched the numbers? It was so-so-“
“Scientific?” he interrupted.
“Nerdy,” you retorted.
Stanford looks even more flushed and defends himself quickly. “I’m a scientist.”
“And a nerd.”
That made Stanford sigh, his gaze flicking back to the floor, he chewed on his bottom lip. “So… what’s your answer?”
You grinned, shaking your head with a determined face. “Yes, yes, of course it’s a yes, you genius.”
Before he had a chance to process your words, you leaned down, tugged on his tie, and kissed him. Stanford let out a surprised sound in the back of his throat, nearly dropping the ring box in his grasp before quickly recovering. His free hand cupped the side of your face, pulling you closer. When the two of you finally pulled away, he looked at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.
You rolled your eyes, tapping his nose lightly. “You really need to work on your delivery, Ford. I mean, come on-who’s proposing in the lab?”
Stanford snorted, you stepped back to give him room to stand “I want to do it somewhere meaningful.”
“And you think meaningful means within five feet of dangerous materials?”
Stanford opened his mouth, then closed it again, adjusted his glasses then smiled sheepishly. “…Not my best decision.”
You giggled, reaching for the ring box. Stanford quickly pulled it back, out of your reach.
“Please allow me.” There was a wide grin on his face as he took the ring out of the box—almost dropping the damn thing in the process—before finally slipping it onto your finger.
It fits.
“You measured my finger size, huh?”
He grinned even wider at the curious expression on your face, there was a mischievous glint in his eye as he replied “…Maybe.”
“God, I love you, silly man.”
You heard him laugh as his large fingers grasped your hand tightly. “And I love you.” You sighed, taking a glance at the ring. It’s simple. No flashy gems, no over-the-top embellishments-just a plain silver ring, with a faint engraving of a symbol you recognize from his research.
An infinity mark.
It was adorable, knowing he’d actually chosen something meaningful to him to symbolize your relationship.
You bit your lip. “So I’ll be your wife, huh?”
Stanford’s grip tightened a little.
“You’re already my wife,” he said softly. “This is just to make it official.”
You stared at him for a while. Then, slowly, you smiled.
“All right, Ford,” you muttered. “Let’s see where forever takes us.”
You didn’t think that forever would bring you to this point.
You lived in Gravity Falls, a place full of strange things that were hard to explain.
You’d faced plenty of weirdness in your life.
You’ve fought cryptids. You’ve argued philosophy with an Unicorn. Even now you’re helping your fiancé—fiancé, what a weird word—build a machine that could theoretically rip holes in the fabric of space and time.
But this?
This was worse.
You looked at the pregnancy test in your hand as if it was an unexploded bomb.
Positive.
Your brain immediately short- circuited. Your first instinct was to throw the thing across the room, as if that could somehow reverse reality. Your second instinct is to scream. But you do neither. Instead, you just… sit there, gripping the sink for support, trying to process the fact that your body is currently hosting microscopic versions of yourself and Stanford.
Oh, my God.
That baby is going to have Stanford’s genes.
What if it came out babbling about math equations? What if it inherits Stanford’s stubbornness and your nihilism and becomes the most sarcastic and existentially confused baby in the world?
“Oh, no,” you mutter. “Oh, no no no no no no-“
You needed some air.
You stumbled out of the bathroom, still clutching the test like it was evidence of a crime. You knew where your feet were taking you.There, you found Stanford in the lab, hunched over a pile of notes and blueprints, fully immersed in complex calculations about God knows what.
You looked up at him, exhaled sharply, then said, “Ford, we have a problem.”
Stanford instantly straightened up, the tone of your voice seeming to put him instantly on alert. “What’s going on?”
You took a deep breath, walked over to him, and-without prompting-slammed a pregnancy test on his desk.
Stanford blinked. Then, slowly, he looked down, staring at the object you had just aggressively placed in front of him.
Silence.
You crossed your arms. “Go on, do your nerd thing. Analyze the data.”
Stanford carefully picked up the test, adjusting his glasses. He squinted, flipping it over like it was a piece of scientific equipment.
“…What am I looking at?”
You fumed, rubbing your face. “Ford, it’s a pregnancy test.”
Silence again.
Stanford’s eyes widened slightly.
You pointed at it. “And that means I’m pregnant.”
Stanford freezes immediately.
You waited.
There was no reaction.
You wave a hand in front of his face. “Ford?”
Still no reaction.
“…Oh, no,” you muttered. “I broke him.”
Then, you heard him speak in a very low voice-
“No way,” Stanford whispered. His hand trembles slightly, and he puts the object back on the table, as if it would burn his skin if held too long.
You chuckled. “Yeah, obviously. I’m not trying to get pregnant, genius.”
Stanford stared at you, his brain clearly racing. “But-I’ve calculated everything. The probability should be-“ Then his face paled. “I miscalculated.”
You raised an eyebrow, pressing your lips into a thin line. “So, that’s what’s freaking you out? Not the fact that I’m currently carrying a mini version of us?”
Stanford took a deep, shuddering breath. “My dear, I-this is-“ He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, sighing uneasily. “I didn’t expect this.”
You chuckle, sarcastically. “Yeah, me neither.”
Stanford swallowed. His hand moved slightly, twitched as if to reach for you but hesitated. His expression was so conflicted—half amazement, and half fear.
You huffed, rubbing your temples. “Look, Ford. I’m still processing this too, alright? I’m freaking out. You’re freaking out. The only difference is that I’m used to panicking and you’re not.”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling unexpected situations.” Stanford gave you a slightly insulted look.
“Ford, you’re almost dissociating now.”
That made him open his mouth—then close it. Stanford cleared his throat before replied. “… Right.”
“I don’t know how to feel about this yet. And I really don’t know what kind of parent I’m going to be. But we’ll face this together, okay?” You stated firmly, placing both hands on his shoulders, giving him a reassuring smile – even though you were just as overwhelmed as he was.
Stanford hesitated for a moment. Then, he took your hand from his shoulder. It was a warm touch. Steady. You swallowed as his fingers lightly pressed against your hand.
“I know you’re scared… I am too,” he confessed in a low voice, tugging you gently into his arms.
“But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing ever goes according to plan. And that… isn’t always a bad thing.”
You gave him a long look. With a deep breath, you returned his grasp. Finally letting yourself lean against him.
“…We’re really going through with this, huh?”
You wrapped your arms around him.
“Yes,” he hushed, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of your head. “We’ll get through it.”
The silence that following after that felt soothing. Stanford’s body, which was bigger than yours, felt so warm and cozy, and he hugged you as if he wanted to meld your souls into one. Trapping you inside him- on his chest- preferably, where his heart beats, so he can protect you from the world and kept you all for himself. Knowing that your heart was beating for him and his for you.
It should make you feel worried, after all you were still not used with this kind of affection. With how tightly he holds you. But somehow you didn’t mind about it. In fact it made you feel more comfortable because you knew the one who held you right now was Stanford.
How strange. Now that you thought about it, the only thing that worried you now was how you were going to tell Fiddleford.
“We need to tell Fiddleford about this” you muttered under your breath, voice muffled in his chest. You chuckled when you heard his strangled choke.
You and Stanford agreed on one thing before telling Fiddleford McGucket:
You both needed to ease him into it.
Unfortunately, Fiddleford was not an “ease into things” kind of person.
You found him in the workshop, with both arms tucked into some sort of weird mechanical machine that was almost certainly not approved for civilian use. His sleeves were rolled up, his brown hair was even messier than usual, and he was muttering something about “improving tractor efficiency through unholy means.”
You’ve learned, through much trial and error, that some things are better left unasked.
“Fidds,” you called, leaning in the doorway.
Fiddleford glanced up and grinned. “Well, if it ain’t my two favorite nerds! Y’all here to help, or just here to admire my latest masterpiece?”
Stanford eyed the machine suspiciously. “Is that… a flamethrower mounted on a plow?”
Fiddleford beamed. “Darn tootin’! Imagine it—ya can clear weeds and defend yer land at the same time! Real multi-purpose engineering!”
You shot him an amused look. “Fidds. That’s a war crime waiting to happen.”
Fiddleford waved dismissively. “Aw, now, that depends on who ya ask. The government? Sure. The folks strugglin’ with mutant hogs? They’ll thank me.”
You chuckled because Fiddleford had a reasonable point, as strange as it may have sounded. “Okay, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. We actually came here to talk to you.”
Fiddleford wiped his hands with a rag, erasing the black oil stains on his skin. “Well, shoot! Y’all ain’t lookin’ to fire me, are ya?”
Stanford frowned at that. It was as if the idea sounded absolutely horrible. Surely he would never fire Fiddleford. His friend was one of the few geniuses he had met in his lifetime. Although his habits were questionable.
“Of course not.” Stanford replied simply by a brief shake of his head.
“Although if you want to quit and focus fully on your homicidal farming tools, we won’t stop you.” You added, winking at Fiddleford.
Fiddleford laughed. Finally throwing the rag carelessly onto the table. “Nah, I like workin’ with y’all. So what’s the big news?”
You and Stanford exchange a look.
Alright. Ease him into it.
You breathed deeply. “So. You know that Ford and I are, uh… together.”
Fiddleford snorted. There was a teasing smirk on his face “Yeah, hard to miss, what with the makin’ googly eyes at each other all the time.”
Stanford flushed. His voice sounded nervous “I don’t-“
“Ford.”
Stanford cleared his throat. “All right. Go ahead.”
You crossed your arms. “Well, as you know, when two people love each other-“
Fiddleford immediately widened his eyes. “Oh, Lord.” He whispered under his breath.
You grimaced. “-and forget the basics of biology-“
Fiddleford gasped. His entire face instantly lights up.
Stanford, already regretting this entire conversation, muttered, “ Dear, please-“
“-they’re having a baby,” you finished your sentence.
Fiddleford screamed. So loud that you bet the genomes that resided in the depths of the forest could hear his scream. Making you and Stanford both jumped at the same time. “Jeez, Fidds!” You scold him in an amused tone.
He didn’t even hear you. He was shaking with excitement, his hands trembling like someone who had just won the lottery. And then he made that gesture, clapping his hands on his knees and body
“Y’all—y’all’re havin’ a young’un?!” Fiddleford said with a big smile and immediately grabbed Stanford’s shoulder. Grabbing the poor man’s shoulder with unexpected strength.
“ STANFORD PINES, YOU DONE GOT SOMEONE PREGNANT?”
Stanford looked completely overwhelmed. He winced slightly as his best friend’s fingers pierced his skin even through the thick fabric of his shirt. “I-yes? I mean-technically-“
“ HOT DIGGITY DOG!” Fiddleford whooped, shaking Stanford slightly. “Look at you! Ain’t just a book-learnin’ type after all, huh?!” “
Stanford went bright red. His hand immediately moved to fix his glasses which were slightly skewed by the shaking. “Fiddleford.”
You broke out laughing at that. “Gosh, Fidds, you’re going to kill him.”
Fiddleford finally listened to you, releasing his death grip from Stanford’s shoulder.
“I just-I can’t believe this,” he said as he walked back and forth, as if needing to channel his excitement. “Ford, buddy, I always thought ya were doomed to a life of lonesome science, but look at ya now! Y’ain’t just settlin’ down, you’re reproducin!”
Stanford groaned, covering his face with one hand. His face was deeply flushed, spreading down his neck and ears. “I deeply regret telling you.”
Fiddleford turned towards you, his eyes sparkling. “darlin’, how ya feelin’ about all this?”
You shrugged. “Between a bit scared and nervous.”
“Yeah, makes sense.” He nodded understandingly. While Stanford blinked his eyes, finally sobering up enough to adjust his glasses again. “Fiddleford, please stay calm about this-“
Fiddleford interrupted Stanford’s words. Not letting him finished whatever sentence Stanford was about to say “Y’all thought of names yet?”
You raised your eyebrows. “Well, we’ve only just found out now”
Fiddleford grinned, snapping his fingers. “Well, if it’s a boy, I vote Fiddleford Junior.”
Stanford snorted and he pinched the bridge of his nose. You could tell he was trying to look annoyed, although the way the corners of his lips curled up said otherwise. “We are not naming our child Fiddleford Junior. That’s my son.”
“All right. Be boring.”
You flashed a cheeky grin. “What about girls?”
Fiddleford grinned even more. “Fiddlefordetta.”
Stanford groaned at that and rolled his eyes.
You chuckled and nodded to Fiddleford “Honestly? That’s interesting.”
Stanford gave you a sharp look, but you didn’t bother to glance back at him.
Fiddleford clasped his hands, his eyes glazing over. “I can’t believe it. I’m gonna be a weird uncle.”
You snorted but your voice sounded softer “I mean, yeah. That was gonna happen anyway.”
Fiddleford rubbed his eyes dramatically. “Y’all’re gonna have the weirdest, smartest, most chaotic young’un in the world.”
“That’s the fear.” You replied back with half joke toned.
Stanford gave a sigh before finally trying to shift the conversation to another topic. “We still have research to do. The portal remains our priority.”
Fiddleford pointed a finger at him. “Oh, sure, sure, scientific progress—but buddy, ya better be takin’ care of ya partner, or I swear I’ll drag ya out behind the shack and teach ya some manners.”
“See, this is why I told you in the first place, Fidds.”
Fiddleford, while wiping away real tears, threw his arms over Stanford’s shoulders. Pulling him into a sideways hug “I can’t wait to see you try fatherhood, Ford.”
You laughed so hard that your cheeks hurt. “Gosh, me too.”
Stanford is the first one to break the silence.
“Are you feeling okay?”
"Hnm?" You let out a grunt, opening your eyes and turning your head to look at him. “I feel like someone threw me into a washing machine and set it to tumble dry for eight hours.”
A small frown shows on his face. “That bad?”
You move your hand in a vague gesture. “I'll live.”
Stanford’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, he looks even more thoughtful.
His hand touches your stomach, just for a moment. A light touch, barely felt.
“…You don’t have to worry about me,” you murmur.
His thumb gently rubs your knuckles. “I always worry about you.” His gaze is softer than usual. Less guarded.
You don’t know what to do with that.
“Do you regret it?” he asks suddenly.
"What?”
Stanford hesitates for a moment, chewing his lower lip “This. Us. This baby.”
You stare at him for a long moment. Then, with a slow sigh, you squeeze his hand.
“Ford,” you say, your voice softer than usual. “If I regretted all this, do you think I’d still be here right now? Lying on your lap, letting you play with my hair like a lovesick teenager?”
He chuckles, his breath almost a whisper. “…Good point.”
You grinned. “Besides, you’d be lost without me.”
Stanford stares at you, caught between disbelief and something unsaid. You lie back in silence, fingers intertwined, your hair feeling soft against his palm.
“I can’t deny it.”
And you know, for the first time since hearing about your pregnancy, Stanford Pines no longer feels afraid.