“You’re her father, Spencer. You’re Esme’s dad.”
I cannot breathe as the entire world narrows down to those three words.
You’re her father.
THIRTY-THREE
RHEA
That night was a blur of emotion and confusion.
When I first opened the door, I thought maybe it was just a delivery—something forgotten from a late-night scroll.
But it wasn’t a box. It was him.
Spencer.
There he was, standing in the rain like a scene from a movie, except this was real. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t apologize for the timing. He just… stepped inside. Like he belonged here.
He didn’t flinch at the clutter, didn’t glance twice at the pile of laundry on the couch, or the toys underfoot. He didn’t turn his nose up at my messy, imperfect life.
He just blended in. Effortlessly.
He was warm with Esme—playful, patient, present. Watching the two of them together was almost unbearable. They were so beautiful. So right. I could hardly look at them without my chest tightening.
He doesn’t just tolerate the frozen pizza and cheap beer. He tastes it. He makes it feel like it’s exactly what he wanted.
And later, when Esme was tucked in and the house had gone quiet, he kissed me again. With reverence. With heat. With everything I remember—and everything I know I don’t deserve.
Like he wanted to give himself to me again. Completely.
And just when I was about to let him—when I was ready to give in to the gravity between us—the braver part of me refused to stay silent.
“Stop.”
The word was out of my mouth before I even knew what it meant.
And suddenly I was saying it. All of it.
“Spencer… Esme is yours. You’re her father.”
His face changed instantly—like a curtain being torn down. Confusion. Anger. Shock. Fear. Disappointment. Betrayal. It’s all there, clashing at once, written across every line of him.
He was pacing the living room like a caged animal, his voice rising fast, wild, impossible to contain.
“How could you not tell me?”
“What right did you have to keep this from me?”
“You didn’t trust me?”
“I didn’t have a family! You made them up in your head from one stupid photo—one photo!”
And again. “You had no right.”
His voice cracks on those last words, raw and ragged.
“What the fuck!” he shouts, running his hands through his hair, turning toward the door, then back again. “I can’t—I can’t be here right now.”
