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Harry wasn’t jealous of his own child. That would be ridiculous.
…Except, well, maybe he was. Just a little.
He lay on their massive bed, idly tracing circles over his stomach with his fingers. The baby was definitely in there, and yet, every time he spoke, every time he tried to coax a reaction, he got nothing. Not a single kick. Not even a shift.
Harry had tested it multiple times. "Hello, little one," he’d murmured. Silence.
"Can you hear me?" Nothing.
"If you move, I promise to steal Tom’s wand and let you blast something later."
…Still nothing.
But the second Tom spoke—literally, the second his voice reached the air—boom, an enthusiastic kick, like their unborn child was already showing their favoritism.
Harry had been not keeping count, but the last six times it happened, he had nearly glared a hole into his husband’s stupidly smug face.
Tonight was no different.
Tom sat beside him, one leg lazily crossed over the other as he read an ancient, ridiculously thick book. His wand hovered beside him, turning the pages at his leisure. It was unfair, really, how effortlessly he embodied power—broad shoulders, dark eyes, that measured, regal composure. Even now, sitting in bed, he looked more like a king than a man winding down for the night.
Harry was still watching him, waiting, when Tom absentmindedly said, “You’re staring.”
A sharp kick landed against Harry’s ribs. He barely held back a groan. Oh, come on.
“Of course,” Harry muttered, rubbing at the spot. “Of course you respond to him.”
Tom glanced at him then, dark brows raising slightly. “What was that?”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Our child likes you more than me.”
A beat of silence. Then Tom smirked.
Oh, he looked so obnoxiously smug.
“Well,” he drawled, setting his book aside, clearly entertained. “Naturally.”
Harry scowled. “Naturally?”
“Yes,” Tom said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He shifted closer, pressing one hand over Harry’s stomach with quiet confidence. “They recognize their superior parent.”
Harry gasped. “Excuse me?”
Another kick. Right where Tom’s hand was.
Harry groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “Oh, this is ridiculous. My own child is betraying me, and they’re not even born yet.”
Tom hummed, thoroughly enjoying this. His hand slid over Harry’s stomach, fingers moving in slow, careful strokes. “Perhaps they simply have better taste.”
Harry groaned. “Merlin, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then Tom started murmuring something under his breath, voice smooth and dangerously soft. It wasn’t even words—just an idle, thoughtful hum, as though he were experimenting with the effect his voice had.
And sure enough, the baby kicked enthusiastically in response.
“Unbelievable,” Harry muttered. He covered his eyes with his arm, sighing heavily. “This is betrayal. I am being betrayed.”
Tom chuckled. The deep, rich sound of it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, and if he wasn’t so bitter about the whole situation, he might’ve admitted how much he liked it.
“Would you like me to fix it?” Tom asked, teasing.
Harry peeked at him from under his arm. “Fix what?”
“Your obvious inferiority.”
Harry smacked his arm. “Die.”
Tom only smirked, leaning closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “I’d rather live to see my child continue to prefer me.”
Harry groaned again, but this time it was half-hearted. The truth was… he liked this. Tom’s hand resting over his stomach, his voice still low and thoughtful, his smirk carrying just a little warmth beneath it. He liked the way Tom instinctively reached for him, the way he spoke as though he already knew he would be here for this child.
Harry let his hand settle over Tom’s, rubbing at the spot where their child had last kicked. For a moment, he hesitated.
Then, softly, he whispered, “Do you think I’ll be a good father?”
The teasing atmosphere vanished instantly. Tom’s gaze sharpened—not unkind, but assessing.
“You are already a good father,” he said simply.
Harry blinked at him. “I—”
“You worry.” Tom’s hand curled just slightly, tightening his grip over Harry’s stomach. “You care. You want them to love you.” His eyes flickered, something unreadable shifting in them. “You are already a better father than most.”
Harry swallowed thickly. He didn’t say anything, just let his fingers squeeze over Tom’s in silent thanks.
A moment passed.
Then—Tom leaned down, his breath warm against Harry’s skin as he deliberately whispered, “Your father is being dramatic.”
Harry gasped. “Tom—”
The baby kicked.
Tom smirked. “See? They agree.”
Harry smacked him again.
And for the first time that day, he didn’t mind the baby kicking at all. Because this time, it wasn’t just excitement at Tom’s voice—it was proof. Proof that their child was here, alive, and impossibly loved. That they were his, and Tom’s, and that no matter who got the most kicks, this little family was already perfect.