She catches him watching her from their bedroom door. Instead of strutting in like he owns the place—as he normally does—he stands outside, hesitant and halting.

"Chuck?" She calls out. "What are you doing out there?"

He wrinkles his brow and a frown crosses his face.

"Chuck." She repeats.

When he doesn't respond, she reaches for her robe hanging from the headboard. He seems paralyzed and she starts to worry. Kicking the blanket off of her, she swings her legs to the side of the bed. He is spurred into action when her foot almost touches the floor.

"No," he calls out with concern, his eyes glued to her expanding stomach. He rushes into the room, to ensure she stays in bed. And that's when she sees the shopping bags swinging from his hands.

She wants to smile in anticipation of possible presents, but the seriousness of his expression confuses her.

"Blair, it's cold, don't get out of bed," he says harshly.

When her eyes narrow slightly, he is instantly contrite. He drops the bags onto his side of the bed, and gently tucks her legs back onto the mattress and carefully arranges the blanket over her—but not before brushing his fingers reverently across her stomach. She lets out a sigh of relief, knowing that Chuck has simply fallen into one of his moods. Being this far along in the pregnancy has taught her a few things—namely, that nothing she does can make this mood of his disappear and she'll just have to ride it out.

Once he's done fussing with the blankets, making sure both she and their unborn little one are warm, he shrugs out of his jacket, kicks off his shoes and sits on his side of the bed.

"You're home late," she pouts when she realizes he still hasn't greeted her hello. This egregious misstep is rectified two seconds later, as he leans over and kisses her softly.

"Sorry," he apologizes as his arms wrap around her and he buries his head into the side of her neck. She lets herself curl up against him, all traces of annoyance fading when his hand finds hers and rests on her tummy. "Work was a bitch."

"Shhh!" She hisses, making sure she sounds irritable. "The baby will hear you."

He brings her hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss on the palm. "Forgive me?"

"Maybe…" she drags the word out slowly.

"If I bribe you?" He posits lightly.

"Perhaps," she says indifferently, knowing full well that he knows she is being playful. "What's in the bags?"

When he remains silent, she turns over to face him. The tinge of red on his cheeks surprises her, as she tries to remember the last time she saw Chuck Bass embarrassed. Her hand reaches out to gently stroke his face, and his eyes flutter shut.

Trying to tease a smile out of him she mock scolds, "If you brought home a bag of sex toys, as God is my witness, Chuck—."

His eyes fly open and a look of horror crosses his face.

"Blair," he hisses. "The baby can hear you."

She laughs at his sudden sense of propriety and wonders if he realizes that he just parroted her words back to her. She laughs harder when he flushes an even darker shade of red and looks away.

"I bought a present for the baby," he mumbles a moment later.

She claps her hands in delight and demands to see it at once. After he fluffs her pillows and makes sure she is sitting upright and comfortably, he brings the bags in between them.

"Close your eyes," he orders shyly.

She nods and then does as he instructed. She loves it when he gets like this—excited and nervous, all rolled into one. It is a rare occurrence, so she tries to absorb every last ounce of it. Something memorable always happens when Chuck behaves like this. Her mind flashes back to the day he proposed and she can't keep the smile off her face.

The paper shopping bag crinkles as she can hear Chuck remove item after item—the heavy, dull thuds are not at all what she expects. She scrunches her face in impatience, itching to open an eye.

"Don't make me blindfold you," he admonishes with a chuckle.

Childishly, Blair sticks her tongue out at him, and is surprised to feel the bed shift. His hands cradle her face, before his lips descend onto hers and he kisses her deeply. The feel of his mouth and his tongue dancing with hers, makes her melt against him. She mewls in disappointment when he pulls away slowly.

"Keep your eyes closed," he instructs her huskily, just as she is about to open them.

"Fine," she says grumpily, wanting to forget about the presents and lose herself in him.

It feels like an eternity, but a minute later he says, "Open your eyes."

Her stomach is filled with fluttering butterflies and her heart catches in her throat when she sees the gift laid out in front of her. She can't stop herself from getting a bit teary-eyed—damn, her hormones!—and she brings her hand to her chest.

A beat later he whispers, "I thought, maybe, I should start practicing now, so by the time our baby comes, I'll be good at it. It's just a start, I mean, it's not—."

"I love you, Chuck Bass," she interrupts.

"I love you, Blair Bass," he answers back.

Their hands find their way to each other on her stomach, once again. He squeezes her hands before he carefully slides the comforter down and lifts up her slip so he can rub his cheek against her bump. She strokes his hair softly as he presses light kisses onto her stomach. She's only five and a half months pregnant and has just started noticeably showing. However, he's been lavishing this type of attention to her abdomen since the day they found out—eight weeks in.

His brows furrow for a moment as he asks, "Did you take your vitamins today?"

She smiles at him indulgently. "Yes."

"I left early this morning," he answers defensively.

"And you texted me no fewer than six times to remind me," she counters.

"Oh, I forgot," he says sheepishly. He returns his focus back on her stomach, his head resting in her lap, while his hand absently traces patterns.

"Do you want to start practicing now? The baby can hear you from there."

"Don't you think that's a little silly?" He sneers with a shake of his head. But then a tinge of uncertainty colors his voice. "I don't have to read to the baby like that…do I?"

"You can do it any way you want," she says softly. "There's no wrong way, Chuck."

"Are you ok like that?" He lifts his head from its position and looks at her questioningly.

"I could be more comfortable," she admits.

"How do you think we should do it?"

She pats the space next to her and he moves to where she instructs him. He scoops up the numerous hardcover Dr. Seuss books and places them on the nightstand next to him. There will be no cheap, soft-cover books for the Bass children—hardcover only, all the way. He casually arranges a couple of pillows and leans against the headboard. Blair shrugs the dark purple velvet robe on, before resting her head in his lap. She looks up at him and smiles.

"Which one should we start with?"

"Any one you want, Chuck. By the time this week is over, I'm sure you'll have read them all."

"You pick, it'll be the first book we ever read to our baby," he says solemnly. "I know how you get about your firsts, Blair."

She smacks him lightly in the chest. "Look how well you turned out. Whichever one you choose, it'll be perfect."

She hears him fiddle with the books and watches his face in concentration. She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh of contentment—who would ever believe Chuck Bass could be this thoughtful? She is the only one who gets to see him like this and she wants to keep it that way. It's her little secret, just how much Chuck loves her. But in a few short months, when the newest addition to their family makes an appearance, Blair will share both her secret and Chuck's love with him or her.

Two minutes pass and she wants to grumble. She knows that Chuck isn't trying to be difficult, he just takes being a good father seriously. And truthfully, she prefers this version of moody Chuck over the version who starts vocalizing his worry that something will happen to her because of the pregnancy. That version of Chuck is the one that tries her patience, because he still hasn't untaught himself that he did not kill his mother during childbirth. No matter how many times she reassures him that she feels fine and nothing is going to happen, it will not assuage his panic or fears. But she won't hold it against him, because it mirrors the same part of her that still wonders if she shouldn't have had that macaron to begin with. No matter how many times he reassures her that she's perfect, she still worries about gaining an extra pound. So she'll take this finicky Chuck any day of the week.

She remains calm, even when she feels him reach over her for the other bag on the bed. It makes her curious, because those are the books she didn't see.

Finally, he clears his throat, and placing a hand on her stomach, he starts to read,

"If you are a dreamer, come in,

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,

A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…

If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire

For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

Come in!

Come in!"*

She smiles. Perfect.

.

.

.

*Poem is "Invitation" from Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends.

A/N: You can thank Iluvenis for this o ne, she is partially responsible for it.

Thank you, as always, to the lovely Uncorazonquebrado, for beta-ing. Somehow, you always manage to bring a little polish to my rough edges. Correction, make that a ton of polish to my very rough edges.