“So now that this is all done, you can relax and finish gestating our son.” Pace lurches forward, slamming his fist into Lex’s shoulder. “Don’t say ‘gestate’! It’s fucking gross.” Lex doesn’t even flinch. “Except for the name,” he adds, mouth strained. “You still need to decide on that, because every week from now until delivery is a melon, and if we start calling this kid ‘pumpkin’, I’ll throw myself off a cliff.”
