Same place.
Same goal.
Friendship as the framework.
It’s sorted. We talked it through, weighed the risks, made the calls that are right for both of us—and for the baby. These are the kind of decisions you make when you’re about to be responsible parents.
This makes sense.
Anton reaches across the table to shake my hand and seal the deal.
It’s such a reasonable gesture.Friendly.
But when the skin of his palm hits mine, electricity shoots through me. Time stretches like it always has when our bodies are near. His thumb brushes the side of my hand, narrowing the whole world to a single point of contact, and I am reeled the hell in all over again.
Eventually, I pull my hand back and offer a smile that’s meant to be normal, but it feels fake on my lips.
I sit back in the booth across from the extremely attractive man I’m about to share a baby with, and the last piece of logic slips a little.
He isnotgoing to be ordinary in the morning.
8
The next sixweeks in LA blur into planning, paperwork, and practical conversations with Anton and my mother.
For someone usually full of opinions, she keeps hers to herself and shows up in ways that make me love her even more that I thought I could. She treats my body like a temple, feeds me the yummiest food, tells me warm baths are still acceptable in Sweden and to take one, and basically, pampers me with a new kind of tender love we’ve never shared.
Anton and I tell everyone about the baby. I feel a brief ache that he doesn’t have many people to tell—though he’s had Lara these past six weeks, and my best friend isgenuinely happy for us. Telling her is harder than telling my mom. Knowing about her fertility struggles makes this accident feel uneven, like life tipping the scales without asking.
But she waves it off in classic Lara fashion and announces she’s throwing me a shower whether I want one or not. I don’t argue. If this is how she wants to love me, I’ll let her.
According to Anton, reactions in town range from ecstatic to cautiously curious. Everyone assumes we’re together. We’re not—though we’ve said the word “friend” often enough that it’s started to sound defensive.
Moving day arrives. My mom fills my car with pregnancy books, clothes, ginger cookies, and enough supplies to get me through the next few weeks. I make the drive on my own, refusing Anton’s offer to help. I’m aware this will be the last long stretch of time I’m alone for a very long time.
I take it slow, stopping often. I get in late. Anton carries my suitcase to my room, and I’m asleep almost immediately.
But morning delivers exactly what I feared.
I’m so beat from yesterday that I hit snooze a few times. When I finally pull on my new uniform and leave my room, I’m met with the aroma of café-quality coffee and the gentle clatter of movement in the kitchen.
That, I welcome.
But the sight of Anton’s back—shirtless, his rock-hard ass framed by gray sweatpants riding low on his hips? Welcome isn’t the right word. Commanding, yes. Welcome? Okay… also yes, but I shouldn’t be thinking that way.
Friends can’t be attracted to each other. Can they? No. That definitely complicates things.
He pours coffee, lats shifting, shoulder tightening, muscle rippling under skin in a way that makes my brain go very quiet and my body very loud.
My eyes slide down his torso to where his ribcage narrows into a sharp V that disappears into the band slung low on his hips. I instinctively squeeze my thighs together, trying to keep my thoughts from dropping straight into the gutter.
The fabric hangs loose, worn soft, doing nothing to hide the shape of the fine ass underneath. He shifts his weight, and the movement is smooth and devastating.
I shouldn’t be thinking about what it would feel like to press my mouth to that sharp hip bone of his. Idefinitelyshouldn’t be thinking about crowding in behind him at the counter and tugging that gray fabric down.
I grip the doorframe, grounding myself before my imagination gets any traction.
He turns then.
