The armor I’d been building—the betrayal I’d wrapped myself in—slid off my shoulders the second I saw him just sitting there. Not demanding. Not chasing. Just… there.
“Morning,” Quentin said.
My mouth tried to twist it into a joke. Air came out. “How’d you?—”
“Your father texted,” he said, simple as fact. “Said you’re safe. Asked if I wanted to sit. I wanted to sit.”
That almost undid me more than last night. Daddy—Mr. I’ll-end-you-if-you-hurt-my-girl—had invited him to sit. In his house. After the way I ran.
I pulled the throw tighter, though I wasn’t cold. Current lived under my skin. Every choice sparking.
Quentin didn’t push the silence. He sipped. Watched me with those eyes that cut past my mouth and saw the wiring I try to pretend is neat.
Daddy came in with a plate—toast, scrambled eggs, peach slices on a little saucer. He didn’t look at me when he set it down. Just said, “Eat,” like he was handing me a flashlight in the dark.
I picked up toast. Put it down. Picked up the peach. Bit into it. Sweet hit my tongue like mercy.
Daddy grunted—good—and disappeared like a man who suddenly had a panel to check.
Quentin’s mouth tipped, not quite a smile. “Peaches.”
“Don’t start,” I muttered, cheeks warming with memory—cobbler, syrup, the way he’d watched me lick it like I was doing it for him.
“Wasn’t going to say a word,” he said. And left it there.
I managed a few bites of eggs before I could look at him. When I did, what I saw almost crushed me.
Not accusation. Not a win. Not even panic.
Love. Plain and quiet. With fear sitting beside it like a roommate until the lease ran out.
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” I said. “I just… saw red.”
“You’re allowed,” he said. No “you’re hormonal.” No lecture. Just his hand resting open on the chair’s arm. Not reaching. Offering.
“Nia—” I started, but the name split my throat.
“She’s not our problem,” he cut in, firm but soft. “She’s mine to handle. I’ve set the line—at work, here, everywhere. I’ll keep setting it. But she’s not an us problem.”
The worduspressed against my chest like a bruise and a balm.
“Rayna,” he said, softer. “You told me you’re pregnant and then you ran. That’s the part I’m asking about.”
“I didn’t run,” I lied. Then laughed, cracked and wet. “Okay. I ran.”
He nodded. Like that was the whole point—to let me name it.
“I was going to tell you. I just—” I swallowed. “I didn’t know what you’d want. Didn’t know what I wanted. Everybody’s got ideas about what women should do with a late period and a warm heart and—” My voice cracked jagged. “—and I don’t trust myself when I want something this much.”
“What do you want?” he asked. No guardrails. Just the question.
I looked down at my hand, at the faint line of blue chalkstill ghosting my knuckles from the last table. Rubbed it like I could erase proof.
“I want…” The word barely fit. “I want to stop pretending lonely is strength. I want to be brave enough not to flinch when somebody loves me right.” My palm slid to my belly, gentle. “I want this to be ours. And I want it without excuses about why.”
Quentin’s breath left him like he’d been holding it a lifetime. His fingers flexed once against the chair’s arm, then went loose.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “Not your body. Not this baby. Not your future. That’s your choice. But if you’re asking what I want?” His voice broke low. “I want to show up. For every appointment. Every three a.m. spiral. Every ‘we don’t know what we’re doing but we’re doing it anyway.’ I want to be your teammate. Not because it’s tidy. Because I love you.”
