Monty moves then.He leans in and presses his forehead to mine for a brief second, as if he needs that contact to convince himself this is real.His breath warms my skin.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs.
I nod against him because if I speak, I’ll lose it completely.
His fingers slide to my waist—barely there, a touch that lingers a moment longer than necessary, as if he’s memorizing me.As if he’s promising something without saying the words.
And I feel it.
I feel how much they love me—how it lives in small gestures and stupid gum, small touches, and the way they showed up and refused to leave.
For one terrifying second, I want to believe this can be mine.
Both of them.
A home.A family.A future where I don’t have to run first just to prove I can.
My gaze drifts from the screen to their faces—Cally’s open devotion, Monty’s contained intensity—and my heart does something reckless.
It reaches.
And right behind that reaching comes the fear.
How long will this last?
How long before they remember they’re still angry at each other?
How long until someone decides this is too complicated and walks away?
Because I know how stories go when you want something this much.
But the heartbeat keeps going—fast, determined, undeniable—and it dares me to accept what I’m seeing.
It dares me to stay.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Callaway
I’ve played in front of fifty thousand people who want my blood if I miss a shot.
I’ve sat in rooms with men in suits who talk like they’re buying your life in quarterly increments.I’ve smiled through press conferences while my knee bounced so hard it could’ve drilled through the floor.
None of that prepared me for a small exam room with blue walls, a humming machine in the corner, and Vesper Anaïs Lafontaine on an exam table in what can only be described as a paper napkin pretending to be clothing.
She looks furious.
Not at me or Monty—at the universe, at biology, at the fact that this is happening to her body without a vote.Her chin is lifted like she can intimidate the ultrasound machine into behaving.Her cheeks are flushed.Her hands are tense where they rest on top of the paper sheet, fingers clenched like she’s holding herself together by force.
Vesper’s eyes go glossy as the heartbeat fills the room.
We’re next to her—both of us.Monty’s fingers linger near hers, close enough to touch but not quite, enough that I notice.He stays there, solid and reassuring.Almost as if he’s saying,Yes.I’m here.We’ve got you.
He doesn’t look away from the screen.He studies it like he’s memorizing the curve of that tiny life, storing it somewhere permanent.Like it already belongs to him in the way that matters.
And it fucking undoes me.
Because I’m the guy who fixes things with money and charm.I’m the one who learned early that control passes for love if you say the right things with a smile.I’ve always believed that problems fold if you apply enough pressure.
