He was building an entire life—apartments, nannies, management companies—and I was just a piece he was fitting into place. Quietly. Efficiently. Without asking if I wanted to belong there.
Owen had made himself scarce since Marcus arrived.
I saw him leaving for shifts in the early morning, his truck pulling out of the driveway before the sun was fully up. I saw lights in the carriage house late at night, the warm glow through the dormer windows that meant he couldn’t sleep either. I saw him crossing the yard sometimes, head down, moving like a man trying not to be noticed.
But he didn’t come for breakfast anymore.
Didn’t show up with takeout on the nights I was too tired to cook. Didn’t appear with his toolbox to fix things that didn’t need fixing. Didn’t text to check if I needed anything, the way he had every day for months.
The absence felt like a wound.
I told myself it made sense. Marcus was here now. Owen was giving us space, giving me the chance to rebuild something with the father of my baby. That’s what a good friend would do.
But the house felt emptier without him. The kitchen felt too quiet. The nursery—with its yellow walls and handmade crib—felt like a monument to someone who’d disappeared.
I missed him.
The realization hit me in the middle of Marcus’s monologue about pediatricians. He was comparing practices in Denver, pulling up reviews on his phone, talking about wait times and specialties, and which hospitals had the best nurseries.
And I was thinking about Owen.
Not just his help. Not just the groceries and the repairs and the rides to doctor’s appointments.
Him.
The way he looked at me like I was worth seeing, not managing. The way he listened without interrupting, without already planning what he was going to say next. The way he remembered things I’d mentioned once, months ago, and turned them into yellow walls and rocking chairs by windows.
The way he’d kissed me back in this kitchen. The way his hands had felt on my face—calloused and careful. The way he’d said I’m not going anywhere and meant it.
“Grace?” Marcus’s voice cut through the fog. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry.” I blinked. “I’m tired. What were you saying?”
“The pediatrician on Sixteenth Street has an opening for new patients. I can call on Monday.”
“We should find someone local,” I said. “In case of emergencies.”
Marcus frowned slightly. “Local meaning here? Grace, the medical facilities in Denver are much better. For the baby’s sake?—”
“The baby is going to be born here,” I said. “Raised here. I want a doctor who’s close.”
Something flickered across his face. Frustration, maybe. The look of a man whose plans were being inconvenienced.
“We can discuss it later,” he said. “You’re tired.”
He reached over and patted my hand—gentle, absent, already moving on.
I thought about Owen’s hands. The way they’d held me when I cried. The way they’d made me feel safe.
What was I doing?
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Marcus was asleep beside me, his breathing deep and even, one arm thrown across the pillow where his phone was charging. He’d checked it three times before falling asleep.Work,he’d said. Always work.
The baby was doing acrobatics—kicks and rolls and sharp jabs against my ribs that made me catch my breath. I pressed my hand against the movement, feeling the solid reality of this child.
The child who tied me to Marcus, no matter what I wanted.
