You huffed an exhale. Unsure of how you'd gotten here, you found yourself in your fogged-up washroom, hair a mess atop your head, and the massive white towel that was originally wrapped around your abdomen in a heap at your toes. Picking apart every little thing about your naked body wasn't something you did often, but it was lately. At twelve weeks pregnant, you were starting to show.

You hadn't told Shawn this. You wanted him to notice, to really feel it the way you had when you first took note of the way your jeans dug into your middle a little deeper.

Even though the bump was tiny—really, it looked as if you'd just killed an extra-large cheese pizza in one sitting—it was still something. It was still there. And it was just as much Shawn's as it was yours.

You awaited his call where he'd tell you not to bother picking him up at the airport because he'd just Uber. He texted you as he boarded at Heathrow and you'd started cleaning the place up. It wasn't until you were stirring the pasta sauce that you looked up at the clock to see it reading nine that your stomach turned. You tried your luck by shooting him a text.

"Are you okay?" you sent, jaw practically falling to the floor when you saw it actually delivered. Something was up.

You called him.

One ring. Two rings. You bit your nail. Three rings.

"Hello?"

"Shawn, are you alright?" you asked in a bit of a contained panic, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

"Yeah, why?" he asked in a low tone. An unaware tone.

"Um," you paused, raising your eyebrows and resting your elbows on the counter, "where are you?"

You expected him to say he was in the Uber. Or leaving the airport. Or even that he'd just landed.

"I'm in New York," he spoke bluntly, as if you were supposed to have known.

"You're," you paused again, trying to wrap your head around things, "you're in New York?"

"Yeah," he started, "SNL's next weekend."

"Yeah, next weekend," deep breath, "as in seven days from now. Shawn, when the hell are you coming home?"

"We need to rehearse."

"You've been touring."

"But this is a new song."

"Yeah, a song about not being able to have someone," you paused, "God fucking knows who."

Uh oh.

"What are you trying to say, here?" Shawn spoke, and you heard rustling in the background. He'd left the room to find somewhere more private, you thought, probably to explode at you. He hated it when you got insecure about this stuff.

"Shawn, I haven't seen you in eight weeks. I've been home, sick, mind you, carrying your child. Ourchild."

"I realize that," Shawn spoke flatly. Ouch.

"You've been touring and touring and touring and you're finally done for a little bit, and you don't even mention you're not coming home? Shawn, I thought you were coming home."

"You know I have that performance coming up," he muttered.

"Well fuck me if I don't know every little detail. Jesus Christ, Shawn, it's like I don't even fucking know you anymore," you spoke, tears beginning to spill over. You sniffled, trying your best to gain composure.

"You want me home? Fine, we'll cancel the goddamn performance. Is that what you want? Would that make you feel better?" he spoke almost mockingly. You were shocked.

It was silent for a while. You spoke first.

"You don't get it, Shawn," you said, "do what you have to do. I'll be here. I'll always be here. Making your favourite fucking dinner."

He didn't respond. Didn't have to. The guilt was already hitting like a fucking train as his anger subsided.

"Fuck, this kid's not even born yet and already all the two of us have is each other. I'm showing, by the way. There's a bump where your baby is. Good luck with the performance. Maybe I'll see you in December when the South American leg is over."

You hung up the phone. And then you got up to turn the stove off. And then you cried. You cried until the tears wouldn't fall, until you could calm yourself down enough to stop shaking because the clenching was probably stressing out your baby.

You picked yourself up off the kitchen floor and trudged into the master bedroom, not even bothering to remove your makeup because you were sure you'd probably already cried it off anyway.

And then you cried yourself to sleep, cursing yourself for ever letting him in. For letting him break down your walls and give you his love, because this was what you were afraid of in the first place.

A relationship with Shawn Mendes was a relationship with yourself.

____________________

Shawn was on a plane to Toronto in an hour.

How could I not tell her? he wondered. I just expected her to know I was going to New York?

He realized he hadn't even texted you when he landed.

Shawn waited for the lights on the plane to dim before he started crying. He thought about how you'd had to go to your six week checkup alone, and your eighth week, and your tenth, and your twelfth. He pictured you in the kitchen tonight, probably making the meat sauce he loved so much, dressed in one of his hoodies and no pants because you were a strict no-pants enthusiast and you always had been.

Shawn wondered what it must have been like for you to wake up every morning, surrounded by his things, alone. Pregnant.

It must have felt like you and the baby against the world. Or you and the baby against him.

Both you and Shawn knew he couldn't stop the tour. The wasn't an option. But Shawn knew he didn't need to be in New York yet. He'd just wanted to, because everyone else was. But what the fuck did everyone else matter when his pregnant girlfriend was at home, crying herself to sleep?

Shawn sobbed silently until he gave himself a headache.

____________________

He pushed through the door silently, carefully setting his guitar down on the floor in the hall. Somehow, he'd managed to find an open florist at two o'clock in the morning, and they'd fixed up a bouquet of white roses with a few blue violets that Shawn had insisted on—he'd read that they symbolized "faithfulness" when he was on the plane.

Shawn winced at the half-cooked meat sauce sitting on the stove element, ruined. It was like a knife in his heart that was only being twisted when he noticed the copy of The Notebook on DVD sitting on the coffee table, because she'd planned on watching his (secret!) favourite movie in the perfectly messy pile of pillows and blankets adorning the couch.

He opened the bedroom door and set the roses down. You weren't snoring, or even breathing heavily, really. You were silent. Out cold, but not sleeping peacefully.

"Honey," Shawn mumbled, kicking off his boots to crawl into bed, jeans-on. He was going to say more, planning on waking you up. But he realized he'd put you through enough. Shawn held you close, heart breaking a little as you adjusted to snuggle against his chest in your sleep, and soon his hand slid from your back to your stomach, landing on the firm bump that was his.

It was Shawn's turn to cry himself to sleep.

____________________

You woke to a very puffy pair of brown eyes staring at you. Fear set in first, but then you came to your senses and melted into him.

"Jesus fuck, Shawn," you breathed, "that's really fucking terrif-"

"M'sorry," he mumbled into your hair, his grip not showing any signs of releasing. Yep, you thought. Knew this was coming.

"I should've called," he started, choked up already, "shouldn't have even gone to New York, I knew they didn't need me yet."

You said nothing. As sweet as it was that he'd dropped everything and come home, it's what he should have done in the first place. It wasn't some grand gesture—it was what most boyfriends would do. You were still hurting.

"I love you," he muttered, pulling away, "I love you, I love you, I love you," he spoke, kissing your nose and cheeks and chin and lips. You couldn't meet his gaze.

"You've been crying," was the first thing out of your mouth, referring to the puffy red rings framing his eyes.

"I deserved to," he spoke, running his thumb over your jaw. You silently agreed.

"I'm still mad at you, Shawn," you pouted, "you didn't even try to come home. I had to make you feel like shit before the gears started turning. That's not okay."

"I know. I know, and I'm sorry," he spoke, pulling you into his chest again, "the song's not about anybody. And the performance isn't that important."

"You're still doing SNL," you spoke softly, snaking your bare leg between his denim-clad ones.

Relief washed over Shawn's entire body. You still wanted to be close to him.

"That's next weekend's problem," Shawn grinned lazily, meeting your lips for a soft kiss, "baby," he started, "what can I do?"

"You can communicate a little better," you answered, "and you can clean up the kitchen."

He laughed at that.

You squealed a little a Shawn placed his cold hand on your stomach, having snaked it under your gigantic shirt. You searched his eyes as he looked down, completely in awe of you and your body and everything it was doing for him and your baby.

"That's, that's, um-"

"There's a baby in there," you giggled, expressing his thoughts.

"Yeah," he giggled, his rough thumb tracing shapes on your skin, "our baby. Ours. You guys have me, okay? What you said on the ph-"

"I didn't mean it," you interrupted.

"We both know you were feeling it. And I never want you to feel that again. You guys are always gonna have me."

You sighed.

"Make it happen, Shawn," was all you could say, the sadness in your voice evident.

"I will, promise," Shawn replied, pulling you a little closer and a little tighter. He knew he had to step up, and he knew he would.