I drift toward the patio table where Marcella is arranging place settings. Her movements are deliberate, each fork placed with careful attention—the concentrated focus of someone relearning fine motor control. I recognize the slight pause between tasks, the way she ensures her grip is secure before moving to the next piece. Small victories that most people wouldn’t notice. “Let me help,” I offer, needing something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the weight of their eyes tracking my movements.
“Nina, chérie,” Marcella says, handing me a stack of napkins. “You look pale tonight.”
“Just tired,” I lie, focusing on folding each napkin with unnecessary care. “Adjusting to a new city is a lot.”
She studies me with that sharp, assessing gaze—the same intensity Mason has, though her blue eyes are warmer than his gray ones. Still, nothing gets past either of them. She glances toward Chris, who’s crouched beside Zoey’s playpen, listening with exaggerated seriousness as she explains something animated about her stuffed elephant.
“He’s good with children,” Marcella observes quietly. “Natural.”
The comment lands like a blade between my ribs. I fumble the napkin I’m folding, my hands suddenly unsteady.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “He is.”
“You don’t like to talk about children,” she says gently. It’s not a question.
I pause, a fork halfway to its proper place. I could deflect, change the subject, retreat behind professional boundaries. But Marcella’s curious yet non-invasive tone makes me want to tell the truth.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“May I ask why?”
“I was eight when my mother died,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Complications during childbirth. I was there when... when it happened.”
Marcella’s expression softens immediately. “Ah, ma chérie. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She pats my hand gently. “Men like Chris and Wyatt—good men—they will understand. And if they do not?” She shrugs elegantly. “Then they are not as good as I thought.”
Chris glances up from Zoey’s animated explanation, catches me watching, and smiles. Those smiles used to make my knees weak—soft, open in a way he reserves for children and animals and moments when he forgets to wear a mask.
My chest constricts so suddenly I have to look away. Chris with a child in his arms, patient and open, and the only thing I can think is I took this from him. It’s not rational. It’s not even true. But guilt doesn’t care about logic.
Mason’s voice carries across the patio, calling everyone to dinner. I place the last fork before everyone converges. The table is set with Marcella’s usual elegant touch—simple white plates, cloth napkins, small sprigs of herbs from the garden tucked under the rim of each wine glass. The food looks incredible, but my stomach is churning with nerves and unfinished confessions.
Chris takes the seat directly across from me. The proximity feels both intentional and torturous. Wyatt sits to my left, close enough that his knee presses against mine under the table. Normally I’d welcome it. Tonight, it feels less like comfort and more like monitoring—a hand hovering over something fragile to make sure it doesn’t fall.
We haven’t finished our conversation. The word pregnant is still sitting between us, raw and unprocessed, and I can feel him holding it—carefully, the way he holds everything—but holding it over me too. Every time his hand brushes my arm, or he leans in to murmur something about passing the tortillas, I feel the unspoken questions pressing against his silence. It makes the air between us feel thinner than the air between me and Chris, which should be impossible given what Chris doesn’t know yet.
The conversation flows around me—Callie’s honeymoon stories, Mason’s playful rebuttals, Marcella’s gentle teasing about their obvious happiness. I try to participate, try to smile at the right moments, but everything feels distant. Like watching from behind glass.
Chris is different with them. I watch him across the table—the way he softens around Callie, the easy warmth when he and Mason fall into a natural back-and-forth. For stretches he almost looks like himself. Then his eyes will track a movement at the edge of his vision, or his hand will pause mid-gesture as if running some internal threat assessment, and I can see what a civilian wouldn’t—the hypervigilance he probably doesn’t even recognize in himself anymore. But the flashes of the old Chris are real, and they make my chest ache in ways I can’t afford right now.
The proximity to them both makes it difficult to focus on the dinner conversation. Every time Chris reaches for his water glass or passes a serving dish, I’m hyperaware of his hands. The same hands that held me that night, that traced patterns on my skin like he was memorizing me. And Wyatt’s closeness, his clean-scented aftershave, invokes memories of that kiss in the elevator that started this whole disaster in the first place.
“The snorkeling was incredible,” Callie is saying. “Mason insisted on swimming with the manta rays, even though they’re basically underwater aircraft carriers.”
“They’re gentle giants,” Mason protests.
“They’re the size of small planes,” she counters. “But watching you with them was...” She pauses, her expression softening. “You were so at peace out there. Like you’d found your element.”
Her voice carries wonder, maybe, or the particular tenderness of someone discovering new depths in the person they love. It’s beautiful, watching them together. The easy intimacy, the way they orbit each other like they’re sharing the same gravitational pull.
“And how are you settling in, Nina?” Mason asks, turning his attention to me. “Is LA treating you well?”
“It’s... good,” I say, though my voice sounds distant even to my own ears. “Still adjusting.”
“Nina’s been doing incredible work,” Wyatt says, and the pride in his voice makes warmth unfurl in my chest despite everything. “Her first sessions went better than anyone hoped.”
