I set down my fork. "A little bit."
Alexander nods, his expression thoughtful. "I've been thinking about it. Since the appointment. Hearing that heartbeat..." He trails off, something vulnerable crossing his face.
"What names do you like?" I ask, super curious to hear his answer.
"For a girl, I thought maybe Ivy." His voice is soft, hesitant. "It was my grandmother's name. She was the only person in my family who showed me any real affection."
We haven’t talked about his family before. It strikes me how little I actually know about his past, despite the intensity of what we shared.
"Ivy," I repeat. "It's pretty. Kind of unusual."
"What about you?" he asks. "Any favorites?"
I shrug, twirling pasta around my fork. "I like Olivia for a girl. And maybe Lucas for a boy? But I'm open to anything really."
"Lucas." He tests the name, nodding slowly. "I like that."
We finish our meal and push the empty plates aside but neither of us move to clear them.
"I need to tell you something," Alexander says, his voice dropping lower. "About why I reacted the way I did when I found out about the baby."
I tense slightly, bracing myself.
"I've always been afraid of having children," he continues. "Terrified, actually. My father was..." He pauses, jaw clenching briefly. "He wasn't a good man, or a good father. I've always worried I'd be the same."
I stay silent, giving him space to continue.
"When I was twenty-five, a woman I was seeing got pregnant." His eyes are fixed somewhere over my shoulder, seeing the past. "I panicked at first. Completely shut down. But then something changed in me, and I started to think maybe it could work. That maybe I could be different from my father."
He takes a deep breath, fingers tapping lightly on the table.
"She had an abortion. Without telling me first." His voice catches slightly. "I only found out after it was done. And I was... devastated. Which surprised me, because I'd been so scared initially. But I realized I had actually started to want that baby."
Alexander's eyes meet mine, and I'm startled to see them shining with unshed tears. "When you told me about the baby, I got very controlling and I’m well aware of that. It was because I wanted it too much, and that terrified me."
The raw honesty in his voice, the vulnerability in his expression—it's like seeing a completely different man from the cold, controlled Alexander who broke things off months ago.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "For that. And for making you think you had to do this alone."
I reach across the table, covering his large warm hand with mine. "You're here now," I say. "That's what matters."
He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. The simple connection sends warmth spreading through my chest. We sit there in the quiet of my kitchen, holding hands across the table, neither of us ready to break the moment.
The kitchen clock reads almost nine when Alexander finally stands, stretching his long frame. We've been talking for hours, clearing the dishes long ago but continuing our conversation at the table, words flowing more easily between us than I ever imagined they could. He looks down at me, his expression soft.
"I should go," he says, his voice low. "You need your sleep, Camille."
He says my name differently now—not clipped and precise like before, but with a gentleness that makes something flutter in my chest. I nod, rising from my chair, suddenly aware of how close we're standing in my small kitchen.
"Thank you for dinner," he continues. "And for listening."
"Thank you for telling me," I reply, meaning it. The story about his past, his vulnerability—it's changed the balance between us in ways I'm still processing.
He moves toward the door, and I follow, our bodies navigating the narrow hallway with careful distance. At the entryway, he turns to face me, hesitating.
"Can I give you a hug?" he asks, and the request—so unlike the Alexander who once took whatever he wanted without asking—makes my throat tight.
I nod, and he steps forward, arms encircling me with surprising gentleness. I let myself lean against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. His hand moves to stroke my hair, and he presses a kiss to the top of my head.
