I reach for the canister with the coffee out of habit, but my hands shake so badly I nearly drop it. Chris’s hand closes over mine, steady and warm, and gently takes it from me.
“I said I’ve got it.” His voice is soft. No edge to it at all.
Wyatt moves closer. “Come here,” he says, opening his arms.
I step into his embrace.
His arms close around me, solid and warm, and for the first time in days I feel like I can actually breathe. Behind me, I hear Chris moving through my kitchen—the clink of mugs, the rustle of him searching for sugar and spoons, the quiet click of the coffee maker starting. He navigates the space like he’s been here before, finding what he needs without asking.
The two of them working in tandem—Wyatt holding me together while Chris handles the practical—feels so natural it makes my chest ache. Like this is how it was always supposed to work.
“I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell us,” Wyatt murmurs against my hair.
I press closer, letting him support more of my weight. Letting him be the anchor I’ve been desperately needing. But I don’t miss the way he said us and not me. As if he and Chris are a unit.
A mug appears on the counter beside us. Chris sets it down carefully, then places a second one next to it. He leans against the counter a few feet away, cradling his own mug, close enough that I can feel his presence without being crowded.
When I finally pull back from Wyatt, I find Chris watching me. His eyes are soft with the same concern I see in Wyatt’s.
“Better?” Wyatt asks.
“A little.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
I look at Chris, leaning against my counter like he’s done a hundred times before, and memories flood back. It’s like he was never gone, like he’s back right where he belongs.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. But you’re both here. There’s no point putting it off.”
26
Nina
We migrate to the kitchen table, mugs in hand. I take the chair across from Chris while Wyatt sits beside me.
For a moment, we all just drink our coffee and avoid eye contact. But I can feel them looking at me, cataloging my posture, my silence. I wish again for my robe, but at least it’s warm in the kitchen. Though my nipples are still prominent little betrayals of how these two men affect me despite the complication hanging between us.
After several beats Chris sets down his mug and looks directly at me.
“When have you ever not been able to come to me?” he asks. Not accusatory. Just steady, like he’s genuinely trying to understand. “Ninth grade, you called me at two in the morning because you and Callie both got your periods. Dad was on call and Mom was working late. I left campus, drove to the store in my boxers.” He holds my gaze. “So what made this different?”
The question hits home. Because the old Chris, Callie’s big brother, the one who showed up no matter what—I never doubted him. But this isn’t that. This isn’t a teenager calling her best friend’s brother for tampons. I’m a grown woman navigating something I never imagined I’d have to face, with a man I once mourned as dead, whose relationship to me has no roadmap.
“Everything,” I say. “Everything made this different.”
“Then help me understand.”
I take a breath. “I need you both to understand something first.”
They wait.
“I’m not sorry.” The words come out steady, certain. “For the choice I made. For not telling you first. For any of it.”
Chris’s expression doesn’t change. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Nina, I remember what you went through as a kid. I remember how you looked at pregnant women, how you flinched when anyone mentioned babies. I remember you telling me you never wanted children, that the thought of pregnancy terrified you.” His voice gentles. “The last thing you should be sorry for is taking care of yourself.”
