Julian's arm tightens around me as Tristan moves closer, his hand coming to rest on my back. Alex looks legitimately distressed by my tears, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Pregnancy hormones," I explain with a watery laugh, wiping at my eyes. "Just... thank you. All of you. For this. For yesterday. For everything."
Understanding dawns on Alex's face, his shoulders relaxing. Julian presses a kiss to my temple while Tristan simply squeezes my hand.
"So," Julian breaks the silence, "who gets to finish the omelets?"
"Clearly the one with actual cooking skills," Alex says, returning to the stove with renewed purpose.
Tristan rolls his eyes but follows, bringing the abandoned whisk with him. "Let's compromise. I'll handle the temperature, you do your folding thing."
I sit at the counter, watching them work together, bickering and laughing, occasionally glancing back at me as if to make sure I'm still smiling. Julian pours me a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and places it in front of me with a flourish.
When breakfast is finally ready—the omelet perfect despite (or because of) their combined efforts—we settle around Julian's dining table. I'm halfway through my omelet when I feel it—a definite, unmistakable movement. Not the flutters I've felt before, but a solid kick against my insides.
"Oh!" I gasp, my fork clattering against the plate as my hand flies to my belly.
"What is it?" All three men ask in near-perfect unison, alarm clear on their faces.
"The baby," I breathe, a smile spreading across my face. "I think—yes, there it is again!" Another kick, stronger this time. "Here, quick!" I reach for Julian's hand since he's closest, placing it against the spot.
For a second, nothing happens. Then another kick, and Julian's eyes widen in wonder. "Holy shit," he whispers. "That's quite a kick."
Tristan is already moving around the table, and I guide his hand to the same spot. The baby obliges with another kick, and Tristan's normally composed face breaks into a rare, full smile.
"Alex," I call, looking for him, but he's already backing away from the table, his face unreadable.
"I need a minute," he says, his voice rough with emotion. He turns and walks swiftly toward the living room.
I look at Tristan, confused and a little hurt. He squeezes my hand. "Give him a moment," he says softly.
Julian nods in agreement, his hand still resting on my belly. "He just needs to process."
I understand then—what this means for Alex, the biological father who nearly lost everything, who's still learning how to navigate vulnerability and emotion. I nod, letting Tristan and Julian continue to feel the baby's movements while giving Alex his space.
A few minutes later, Alex returns, his composure restored but his eyes suspiciously bright. He kneels beside my chair.
"May I?" he asks, his voice unusually gentle.
I nod, taking his hand and placing it against my stomach. We wait, the four of us frozen in anticipation. Just when I think the baby might have settled down, there's a strong kick right against Alex's palm.
His sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room. He looks up at me with wonder in his eyes. Then he leans forward, pressing his lips to the curve of my belly through my t-shirt.
"I can't believe I almost lost this," he murmurs, so quietly I barely hear him. But I do, and my heart squeezes painfully in my chest. My fingers find his hair, stroking gently as he rests his forehead against my stomach.
"None of my clothes fit anymore," I announce to Tristan as we step through the glass doors of Bellamy's, an upscale maternity boutique that I'd normally walk right past. "It happened so fast. Last week these jeans buttoned, and today they're like... forget it."
Tristan's hand rests on my shoulders, steady and warm. "That's why we're here," he says simply, his eyes scanning the store with focused attention. "Your body is doing something incredible. It deserves clothes that fit properly."
A sales associate approaches, her smile brightening when she seems to recognize Tristan. Of course she does—his face has been splashed across enough business magazines and, more recently, gossip rags. To her credit, she maintains her professionalism despite what must be burning curiosity about our relationship.
"We need everything," Tristan tells her before I can speak. "Casual wear, work attire, some nicer dresses for evenings out."
"Wait, I don't need that much," I protest, heat rising to my cheeks. "Just a few basics to get me through the next few months."
Tristan looks down at me, his expression softening. "Humor me," he says quietly, for my ears only. "Let me do this for you."
Something in his voice—a vulnerability that Tristan rarely shows—silences my objections. I nod, and the sales associate leads us to a section of the store featuring stylish basics in soft, stretchy fabrics.
