"You can't just decide to be involved now that it's convenient for you, Alexander," she says quietly. "This isn't a business deal where you can dictate terms."
"I know that," I say, leaning forward across my desk. "I'm not trying to dictate anything. I'm asking for a chance."
"After months of silence," Tristan points out, his hand finding Camille's arm in a gesture that's both protective andpossessive. His fingers brush her skin in a casual intimacy that makes my teeth clench.
"Yes, after months of silence," I acknowledge. "I made a mistake. I should have answered when you tried to reach me. I should have been there from the beginning. But I can't change that now. All I can do is try to be here going forward."
Julian and Tristan exchange a look over Camille's head, some silent communication passing between them. The easy synchronicity of their movement, the way they instinctively work as a team around her—it's like watching a well-rehearsed dance that I don't know the steps to.
"What exactly are you proposing?" Camille asks, her voice gaining strength. "Because if you think you can just walk back into my life and take control, you're sadly mistaken."
"I don't want to control anything," I say, though I know that’s not really true. Control is what I've built my life around. Control is what I crave when everything feels uncertain. "I just want to be part of this. Part of our child's life. I want to be at doctor's appointments. I want to help prepare for the baby. I want..." I hesitate, unsure how much I should admit. "I want to make things right."
Camille's expression softens slightly, but Julian's hand moves to her shoulder again, a silent reminder of his presence. I watch his thumb rest lightly against the fabric of her blouse, and something hot and ugly twists in my chest. He touches her with the casual confidence of a man who knows he has the right to do so. Tristan, too, stands close enough that his leg presses against the arm of her chair, a physical reminder of his connection to her.
I've never wanted to hit my friends before. The impulse shocks me with its intensity.
"And what about them?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice as I gesture toward Julian and Tristan. "How does this... arrangement... factor into your vision of co-parenting?"
Camille's chin lifts slightly. "That's not something you get to have an opinion about, Alexander. Who I'm with is my business. The only thing we need to discuss is how we're going to raise this child together."
Together, but separately. The implication is clear. We won't be a family—at least not the kind I suddenly, desperately want us to be. Camille will have her life with Julian and Tristan, and I'll have... what? Scheduled visitations? Every other weekend? The thought makes my stomach twist.
"I understand," I say, though I don't. I have no idea how we’re going to do this.
Camille looks at me with those stunning blue eyes and I wonder if she can see the regret, the longing, the desperate wish to turn back time.
"Do you?" she asks softly. "Because this isn't going to be easy, Alexander. For any of us."
"I’m well aware. I've been thinking about logistics," I say, forcing myself into familiar territory. Problems to solve. Solutions to implement. "Medical care, for starters."
Camille's eyes narrow slightly. "We already talked about this. I have an excellent doctor who I’m very happy with."
"I'm sure you do," I concede, trying to soften my approach. "But I'd like to make sure all options are available to you. There's a specialist at Mount Sinai who?—"
"This is exactly what I was talking about," Camille interrupts, her voice tight. "You can't just swoop in and start rearranging things to suit your preferences."
Tristan's hand comes to rest on the arm of her chair, close enough to touch her but not quite making contact. A restraintthat somehow feels more intimate than an actual touch would have been.
"Camille's doctor is one of the best in the city," Julian says. "We researched extensively."
We. That word again. A knife twisting deeper each time I hear it.
I take a breath, regroup. "I apologize. I'm not trying to change things. I just want what's best for you and the baby."
"What's best for me is not being stressed," Camille replies, her hand unconsciously moving to her stomach. The gesture catches my eye, holds it. Her fingers spread protectively over the place where our child grows.
The rebuke lands with precision. She's right, of course. Antagonizing her won't help anyone, least of all the baby.
"You're right," I admit, forcing myself to meet her eyes directly. "I'm handling this poorly. I'm..." I hesitate, the word sticking in my throat. "I'm concerned, Camille."
The admission surprises all of us. Vulnerability has never been my strong suit. In the silence that follows, I watch something shift in her expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of her lips.
"Concerned?" she repeats, the edge gone from her voice.
"I've never been a father before," I say quietly. "I've never wanted to be one. And now that it's happening, I'm worried I'll mess it up. That I already have."
Julian and Tristan look at each other again. But I don't care what they're thinking. My focus is entirely on Camille, on the way she's looking at me now—really looking at me, without the defensive wall she's maintained since walking in.
