“Mother. Father. This is Morgan.” I glanced at him and corrected softly, “My Morgan.”
Mother’s gaze flicked to me at that. Just a flicker. Then back to him.
“Please,” Father said evenly, extending his hand, “James is fine.”
Morgan shook it, firm but cautious. “Please, come in,” he said quickly, stepping back.
They entered, taking in the space. The scuffed floorboards. The mismatched cushions. The faint smell of baby lotion and old radiators.
“What a dear place,” Mother said, and there was no censure in it. Just observation.
Then she saw Gabbi.
“You darling child.” She moved toward the bassinet with the kind of careful grace she used at charity luncheons, bending atthe knee instead of the waist. Gabbi blinked up at her, solemn for all of three seconds before grabbing the delicate gold chain at Mother’s throat.
“Oh!” Mother laughed—a real laugh. “Well, sweetheart, you’re determined.”
Gabbi squealed in triumph.
Morgan stood rigid beside me, braced for something—judgment, perhaps. I tightened my arm around him.
“Would you like a drink?” Morgan asked, voice polite but tight. “We have water. Or, um. Beer.”
Father removed his coat and folded it neatly over the back of a chair. “Water would be perfect, thank you.”
“I’ll help,” I said, but Morgan shook his head and headed to the small kitchen area.
Mother glanced at me. “Are you happy, Cole?” she asked quietly.
“More than happy,” I replied.
Morgan returned with glasses of water, hands steady now. He passed them carefully, but Mother placed hers down on a coaster and straightened. “May I hold her?” she asked, gesturing toward Gabbi.
Morgan hesitated. Just a fraction.
“She’ll probably spit up on your clothes,” he warned, but then he nodded. “Of course.”
Mother lifted Gabbi from the bassinet. Gabbi squirmed once, then settled against her, fingers immediately tangling in cream wool.
“She’s so beautiful,” Mother murmured.
“Thank you,” Morgan said automatically, moving closer without seeming to realize it, and I smiled so damn hard it hurt.
Father watched me. “You seem… happy here, son.”
“I am,” I answered. Morgan lowered himself onto the sofa and I sat beside him, our knees touching, my hand finding his without hesitation. He laced his fingers through mine.
“Hello, little Gabbi,” Mother said, rocking and bouncing her, chuckling when Gabbi spit up on her Chanel jacket.
“I’m so sorry.” Morgan began to rise, but she waved him away.
“For a cuddle with your precious daughter, I would pay any price,” she said, and my heart hurt.
“I understand you served,” Father said, and Morgan nodded. “Thank you for your service.” There was a pause; he was probably waiting for Morgan to thank him back, but that wasn’t Morgan at all. “Right, well, um… are you working since leaving Guardian Hall?” Father asked Morgan directly. I knew he was only making conversation, but the question was raw.
Morgan’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t pull his hand from mine. “I’ve applied to UC. Engineering or construction management. Waiting to hear.”
Father nodded once. “Practical. Useful.”
