I force down another bite of rice to avoid responding, but it tastes like sawdust now. Everything does when he looks at me like that—or, well, when I imagine he’s looking at me like that. That’s one curse of my blindness: I’ll never know if his eyes still go soft when he’s trying not to care. If they’re blue or black right now.
“Can I ask how you’re feeling?” Bastian asks. “With the pregnancy, I mean.”
“Tired,” I admit, setting down my spoon. “Also nauseous and scared shitless. Usually one of those three things on a rotation. Sometimes a few at once.”
“That sounds about right.” He wriggles in the booth. “Ayesha—one of my line cooks at Coruscant—she worked straight through to basically the day she popped. Used to prop herself against the prep station between orders, and she’d rip my head
