Ryan gulps exaggeratedly. “Sorry. Anyway, Ms. Peterson said it was the coolest thing anyone brought. Even cooler than Jake’s tarantula.”
“A high honor indeed,” I say, reaching over to brush crumbs from his chin. The gesture comes naturally now, though the first time I did it, I froze afterward, worried I’d overstepped. But Ryan had just smiled, and Ronan’s eyes had softened in that way that still makes my heart flip.
“I told everyone my new mom knows everything about dinosaurs and planets and stuff,”Ryan continues, beaming at me.
New mom. The words still knock the air from my lungs every time he says them.
“I wouldn’t say everything,” I laugh, hoping they don’t notice the catch in my voice. “But I’m glad I could help with your project.”
Ronan sets down the carving knife and passes me a plate with a perfect portion of chicken, roasted vegetables, and herbed rice. He knows exactly how I like it—a little of everything, nothing touching. When did he learn that? I can’t remember telling him.
The domestic rhythm of it all—the clink of silverware, the smell of herbs and garlic wafting through the air, Ryan sneaking a third roll when he thinks we’re not looking—it's almost too perfect. Too normal. For a girl who once sold a weekend of her company to pay off loan sharks, this kind of happiness feels stolen.
And now I’m about to change everything again.
My fork hovers over my plate, appetite vanishing beneath a swell of nerves. I’ve been feeling a littleofffor two weeks now—queasy in the mornings, suddenly unable to tolerate the smell of coffee, exhausted by mid-afternoon. The test I took this morning only confirmed what my body already knew.
“You’ve hardly touched your food,” Ronan says, his voice dropping to that low register that means he’s concerned. Nothing escapes him.
Ever.
“Just thinking,” I say, forcing a bite of chicken. It tastes like sawdust in my mouth.
“About what?” Ryan asks, mouth thankfully empty this time.
“About how lucky I am,” I say honestly. Because I am, regardless of what happens next. Regardless of how Ronan reacts to my news.
Ronan’s eyes narrow slightly. He sets down his fork and knife, giving me his full attention—that laser focus that once intimidated me but now feels like safety. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Rayne.” Just my name, but loaded with everything—concern, love, a demand for honesty.
My hands shake slightly as I set down my own silverware. I planned to wait until after dinner, maybe until Ryan was in bed, but Ronan won’t let this go now. He never does when he senses something’s not right, especially with me.
“I—” What if it's too soon? What if he thinks we're moving too fast? What if?—
“Mom?” Ryan’s voice joins his father’s concern. “Are you sick?”
"No, buddy, I’m not sick.” I take a deep breath, looking between their matching worried expressions. “I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air, and I find myself unable to breathe.
Ronan goes completely still. Not the controlled stillness I’ve seen in him before, but something else entirely—as if time itself has stopped for him. His fork clatters to his plate, the only sound in the sudden silence.
Something passes his features, and he moves. He pushes back his chair with enough force that it nearly topples, strides to my side, and pulls my chair out. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s on his knees beside me, both hands reaching for my still-flat stomach.
“Say it again.” His voice is rough and unsteady in a way I’ve never heard before.
“I’m pregnant,” I repeat, softer this time. “I found out this morning.”
Something breaks open in his expression—pure, unfiltered joy. His eyes shine with unshed tears.
“A baby?” he whispers, fingers splaying protectively across my abdomen. “Our baby?”
I nod, my own vision blurring. “Our baby.”
He presses his forehead against my stomach, shoulders shaking once, twice. When he looks up, there’s wetness on his lashes. “Thank you,” he says, the words carrying the weight of everything unsaid between us—how far we’ve come, how impossible this all once seemed.
