Later on, the rich aroma of curry and naan fills Tristan's apartment as we gather around the dining table, takeout containers creating a miniature Indian feast in the center.
Alex stands at the head of the table, distributing food with the same precision he probably uses to delegate tasks in boardroom meetings. Julian catches my eye across the table and winks.
We’re all so happy. The baby is healthy. Everything is coming together except for the damn paparazzi. And somehow, against all odds, the four of us are making this work.
"I still can't believe Dr. Wiley kept a straight face through the entire appointment," Julian says, scooping butter chicken onto my plate. "Especially when you started asking about episiotomy statistics, Alex."
Alex doesn't even look embarrassed. "It's a legitimate concern. The literature on perineal tearing is alarming."
"Can we maybe not discuss tearing while we're eating?" I plead, though I’m smiling as I help myself to vegetable korma.
Tristan passes me the naan. "You should eat more protein," he says, nudging the lamb curry closer to me. "The baby needs it."
"The baby seems to be doing just fine," I reply, but I know he’s right, so I take some anyway. "Did you see those little hands on the ultrasound? And those tiny fingers?"
"I still think it's a boy," Alex says, his confidence unwavering.
"No, no. It’s a girl," Julian counters. "You have no idea what you’re talking about."
"Statistically speaking, it's a fifty-fifty chance," Tristan points out, ever the voice of reason. "Though there are some studies suggesting slightly higher odds of male births in certain populations?—"
"It doesn't matter," I interrupt, as I rest a hand on my stomach. "As long as the little nugget is healthy."
We all fall silent for a moment, the truth of my words settling over us. After too many days of gossip, paparazzi, and family drama, today's appointment was exactly what we needed—confirmation that amid all the chaos, our baby is thriving.
Later, after dinner has been cleared away and the dishes loaded into Tristan's ridiculously high-tech dishwasher, Julian and I retreat to the bedroom. My back has been bothering me all day—something about ligaments stretching to accommodate the growing baby, according to Dr. Wiley and the many books now scattered across all four of our homes.
"Lie down, baby," he tells me, gesturing to the bed. "On your side."
I comply, settling onto my left side with a soft sigh of relief. Julian slides in behind me, his fingers finding the tight muscles at the base of my spine. I make a noise somewhere between a moan and a purr as he begins to knead gently.
"God, you have magic hands," I murmur, eyes fluttering closed.
"So I've been told," he replies with a cockiness I’ve come to expect.
His fingers work their way up my back, seeking out knots and tension points, applying just enough pressure to release without hurting. I feel myself relaxing beneath his touch.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice low. "And don't say 'fine'—I want the real answer."
I’m quiet for a moment, considering. "Overwhelmed, sometimes. But in a good way. Like I can't believe this is my life now." I shift slightly, pressing back against his hands. "Definitely scared, too. About being a mom. About getting it right."
"You're going to be amazing," he tells me with so much enthusiasm in his voice. "And you've got three slightly neurotic men obsessively researching every aspect of childcare to back you up. This kid's going to be the most protected and loved baby on the planet."
I laugh softly, then roll over to face him. In the dim light of the bedroom, my eyes find his, something unspoken hovering between us.
"Julian," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I love you."
I can’t believe I just said it. We've been dancing around this, both of us, for weeks now. I've felt it growing, this thing between us that's separate from what I share with Tristan or Alex. Something completely ours.
"I love you too," he says, the words quickly flowing out of his mouth. "God, I've wanted to tell you for so long."
I smile at him and reach up to touch his cheek, and he turns his head to press a kiss into my palm.
"Say it again," I whisper.
"I love you, Cami," he repeats, lowering his head to kiss my lips.
The kiss deepens instantly, months of emotion pouring into the connection between us. I feel his hands sliding under my shirt, his touch igniting sparks along my skin. My own hands wander, cradling his face, tracing the curve of his shoulder, coming to rest on the back of his neck.
