She asks for the shower

Jess finished the last of her tea and set the mug down carefully on the coffee table. She shifted on the couch, one hand still resting on the high curve of her belly, and looked toward the bathroom door.

“Would it be okay if I used the shower?” she asked quietly. “I feel… sticky. And gross. I’ve been sitting outside for a couple of hours and I just want to feel clean again.”

“Of course.” I stood up. “Towels are in the cupboard behind the door. There’s shampoo and everything in there already. Take as long as you need.”

She pushed herself up from the couch with that same careful effort I’d seen earlier—one hand under the belly for support, the other braced on the armrest. The thin white tank top stretched tight across the rounded shape as she straightened. For a second the fabric rode higher, showing more of the smooth, taut skin and the dark line running down the centre.

I looked away and walked her to the bathroom.

“Clean towels on the shelf,” I said, pointing. “There’s a new toothbrush in the second drawer if you want it. I’ll leave some spare clothes outside the door—something soft you can sleep in.”

She nodded, already looking relieved at the thought of hot water.

“Thank you. Really.”

I stepped out and closed the door behind her. A moment later I heard the water start.

I stood in the hallway longer than I needed to.

The sound of the shower filled the quiet apartment. I could picture her in there—nineteen, five and a half months pregnant, stripping out of the baggy hoodie and leggings, stepping under the spray with that high, firm belly leading the way. The water running over the stretched skin. The way the weight of it would pull at her lower back when she tilted her head back to wash her hair. The soft, heavy shape of her, wet and warm and temporarily alone in my bathroom.

My cock stirred hard against my thigh. I exhaled slowly and forced myself to move.

In the bedroom I pulled out an old soft grey T-shirt—one of mine, oversized even on me—and a pair of dark cotton shorts with a drawstring. Something that wouldn’t dig into her stomach. I left them folded on the floor just outside the bathroom door, then went back to the living room and sat down again.

The water kept running.

I stared at the blank television screen and tried not to think about the exact curve of her belly under the spray. Tried not to remember how Lisa’s had felt under my hand the night before—tighter, heavier, eight and a half months and full of movement. This one was different. Smaller. Higher. Still growing. Still belonging to a girl whose parents had thrown her out the same morning they found out.

The shower shut off.

A few minutes later the bathroom door opened. Jess stepped out wearing my T-shirt.

It hung loosely on her shoulders and arms, but the soft grey fabric stretched smoothly over the rounded shape of her belly, the hem stopping mid-thigh. Her wet hair was combed back from her face. Her skin looked warmer, cleaner. The sharp edge of panic that had been in her eyes earlier had softened into something quieter.

She stood in the doorway for a second, one hand resting on the underside of her belly like she was still getting used to the weight of it without the hoodie to hide behind.

“These are really comfortable,” she said, glancing down at herself. “Thank you.”

“You look better.”

“I feel better.” She walked carefully back to the couch and lowered herself onto it again, this time with less tension in her shoulders. The T-shirt rode up slightly as she sat, showing the lower curve of her stomach and the waistband of the shorts. She didn’t tug it back down.

“I didn’t realise how much I needed that until the water hit,” she said. “Everything feels less… heavy. Even this.” She gave the side of her belly a small, almost affectionate pat.

I stayed where I was, watching the way the soft fabric clung to the high, firm shape. The heat under my skin had settled into something steady and dangerous.

“You can stay as long as you need,” I said. “Couch is yours. Or the bed if you’d rather. There’s food whenever you’re hungry. No rush on any of it.”

Jess looked at me for a long moment. Her eyes were clearer now. Grateful. And something else—something quieter and more complicated—flickered behind the gratitude.

“You’re being too nice to me,” she said softly.

I didn’t answer that.

She leaned back against the cushions, one hand still resting on the stretched fabric over her belly, and closed her eyes for a few seconds like she was finally letting herself breathe.

The apartment felt smaller with her in it. Warmer. Charged.

And I already knew I wasn’t going to send her away in the morning.