“Well, yeah.”My laugh comes out smaller, more honest.“I have to be responsible now.”
The word responsible tastes strange in my mouth, like it belongs to someone else.
“I’m supposed to lease an apartment with two bedrooms and—” I wave a hand again, because my thoughts are sprinting.“And do you know when I’ll be able to work again?I travel.I bounce.I take jobs wherever the universe drops them.I don’t do routine.I don’t do ...staying.”
“When the baby is old enough,” Monty says, like it’s obvious, “you can go back and finish your Ph.D.Or change your mind.Or do something else.The possibilities are endless.”
My heart stutters.
Because he remembers.
He remembers my stupid dream that I only talk about when I’m half-asleep and feeling brave.He remembers the part of me that wants to teach someday, wants roots even if I pretend I don’t, wants a life that doesn’t involve constantly proving I can survive.
How does he always remember the soft parts I try to hide?
I turn away before they can see what that does to me.I press my fingers to my forehead, as if I can shove my panic back behind my eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say quietly.“Neither one of you has to ...take care of me.”
Cally doesn’t hesitate.“I know.”
My eyes close.A breath shudders out of me.“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because I want to,” Cally says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
And Monty—Monty takes a step closer, close enough that I feel the heat of him without him touching me.Close enough that my body reacts like it recognizes him as safety and danger in the same breath.
“We love you,” he says.
My throat tries to betray me.My eyes burn.
He doesn’t stop.“That means we want to be part of your life.This baby is part of you.”His voice drops, rougher on the edges.“I already love the baby.”
Oh my God.
I shake my head, because if I nod, I might collapse.
“You don’t have time,” I say, and my voice tries for sarcasm and comes out pleading.“You don’t have time to play babysitter to a woman who can’t sit still and is about to have a baby.”
Cally’s mouth tilts like he’s fighting a smile.“I think we can handle you.”
“It might require two men,” Monty murmurs, like he’s evaluating a mission, “to handle you.”
My face heats.My stomach flips—again, not pregnancy.Not only pregnancy.
He’s looking at me like that line has a second meaning, and my body is annoyingly fluent in that language.
He shrugs, like he’s not fully aware he’s undoing me.“We’re up to the challenge.”
I groan and drag a hand down my face.“You’re impossible.”
“Accurate,” Cally says cheerfully.“We’ve been told.”
But then his expression changes—softening, not into pity, but into something that makes my throat sting.
“Look,” he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed like he needs something to do with them.“I get it.”
I glance back, wary.
