Bess had found it much easier than she had originally thought to make it through the match. Not because her nerves weren't there, but to say that she was a stereotypical quidditch wife would be the understatement of the year. She wasn't there in pearls and high heels, not being able to tell which ball from which. Bess was a fan, she respected Drystan's job and hell if she wasn't going to love it as much as he did.
So, her throat was a little sore and her hair was frizzy and haywire, but she had made it through the match (WHICH SCOTLAND HAD WON!) and was now home ready to breathe.
Or maybe not.
Bess tied up her hair into the worst ponytail she'd ever managed because she actually could not find it in herself to care about anything but her husband and the baby inside of her. "Right before I told you," she said, sitting down onto the bed and pulling her legs underneath her. She put her hand on his leg, forcing herself not to pout (okay--maybe a little pout), "I should have waited to tell you, but I panicked--I know we haven't exactly discussed this..."
She held her breath. She really didn't know what she wanted right now, and that meant she had absolutely no idea what was going on in Drystan's head.
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