"I love you Mickey"

Part 21

Mickey's pov:

A week post-wedding, Natalie informed me of an apparent pain, prompting a hospital visit. While awaiting the doctor, she confessed the pain was a ruse, devised to ensure my presence as we discovered our baby's gender - a detail I wouldn't willingly engage in.

"Why the fuck lie?" I hissed, suppressing any escalation in volume.

"Mickey, you're on the brink of learning the gender of your child," she explained, her expression furrowed. "Yeah, great, so cool. I fucking love it," I retorted with a sarcastic eye roll. The notion of people obsessing over and celebrating a baby's gender baffled me; in due time, you'd know anyway. It seemed like an unnecessary waste of time.

"Ruslanov!" echoed a nurse, calling us in. Attempting to link arms, Natalie faced my resistance, and we entered the room. The doctor proceeded with an ultrasound, his words a continuous stream. Sitting stoically, I endured the doctor's discourse. After several minutes, we faced the doctor as he disclosed the gender of our child - a healthy baby girl.

Klas's pov:

It was a slow day, and boredom settled in, compelling me to play the piano alone. With my mother out shopping and my father at work, solitude enveloped the house. After hours of playing, a thirst overcame me, leading me to the kitchen. I retrieved a cold glass of milk from the fridge and perched on the kitchen counter as I sipped.

The tranquility shattered with the buzzing of my phone - Mickey was calling. Contemplating whether to answer, torn between my reluctance to engage with him and the concern for his well-being, I pressed accept. "Yes, Mickey?" I inquired.

"A fucking girl!" he exclaimed, his happiness evident. Bewildered, I questioned, "Who's a girl, Mickey?" His response clarified, "My kid. I went to the hospital today, and she's a girl." Nodding slowly, I sighed and responded, "Oh, that's good, Mickey. Congratulations," infusing my words with a genuinely cheerful tone.

He painted a playful picture of our futures intertwined, envisioning his daughter playing house and Barbies together with me. His words, a heartwarming acknowledgment of our enduring connection. Despite the passage of time, Mickey's love remained, and I found solace in knowing that my love for him had never waned.

"Of course, of course," I replied with laughter, as he suggested meeting for coffee. The longing to see him and the realization that I missed him drew me in, and I agreed.

We ordered steaming cups of coffee and an array of pastries, strolling leisurely through the park. Seating ourselves on a bench, I savored the warmth of my coffee while Mickey indulged in a doughnut. A smile crept onto my face as I observed him, a frown etched on his features, sugar icing adorning his jacket.

He caught my gaze, questioning, "What the fuck you lookin at?" It was then I noticed a hint of sugar icing lingering at the corner of his lips. Unable to resist, my hand reached out to wipe it away as he chewed his food. Mickey, typically reserved about physical contact, rarely refused my touch, especially in moments like these. Feeling privileged, I savored the connection.

"Eat your damn doughnut," he instructed, and I shook my head playfully. "I'm getting fat, Mickey," I confessed, a giggle escaping my lips.

"So the fuck what? It doesn't make you any less beautiful," he declared, and a blush crept over my cheeks. Mickey's contradictions often left me perplexed - capable of acts that defied societal norms, yet vehemently opposed to body-shaming and prejudice. In those moments, he demonstrated a rare vulnerability that added layers to the enigma that was Mickey.

"Can I have some?" a little boy approached us, eyes fixed on Mickey's favorite doughnut. Surveying the surroundings, I noticed a nearby playground filled with kids enjoying themselves. Mickey, however, wore a frown, clutching his box of doughnuts possessively.