Monty scoffs.Not at the book—at me.At the fact that I’m sitting here doing research like a man who plans to be in this.He glares as if I’m wasting my time.
“You’re not planning to get involved, then?”I ask.
His expression hardens into a scowl.
Honestly, I want to push him—just to figure out what his fucking problem is.I don’t.
“Do whatever you want, but?—”
“I’m taking a parenting class online,” he cuts in.“I registered the three of us earlier today.”
For a second, I hate him.
Not because it’s a bad idea.Because he did it first.Because he said “the three of us” like it’s a fact and not a war zone.
Because Monty isn’t someone who shares space easily—he keeps his world tight, controlled, built for one—and yet he seems to want to claim us anyway.
I lift my brows.“A parenting class?”
Monty’s stare is hard.“Yes.”
“Wow,” I whisper, biting back a grin.“Look at you, being domestic.”
He scowls like “domestic” is an insult.“Don’t you fucking start.”
“Books are also helpful,” I say, because I refuse to let him win this round.
“Fine.”He gestures at my e-reader.“I’ll read whatever she thinks will benefit her and the baby.”
Something in my chest loosens at that.Not relief exactly.More like recognition.
He’s in this.He’s terrified.He’s doing it anyway.
I skim past the nausea section and land on a list of foods that are supposed to be easier to keep down.Bland stuff.Rice.Crackers.Bananas.An aggressive endorsement for ginger.
I text Benji new instructions.
My phone buzzes immediately.
Benji: Bland?She’s pregnant, not sick.
Me: That’s what the book says.
Benji: I’m figuring out her tastebuds.You can’t rush art.
Me: You’re calling food art?
Benji: My cooking is art.She’ll be eating gourmet meals by next week and she won’t be puking it up.As long as she stops complaining—of course.
I glance at Vesper.
She shifts in her sleep, fingers curling into the couch cushion like she’s holding onto something even in her dreams.She burrows deeper, breathing slow, a faint crease between her brows like her brain refuses to clock out.
My heart does that stupid thing again—softening.
I should stop watching her like a lovesick idiot.
I don’t—mostly, I can’t.It’s impossible when I have her so close.
