The conversation shifts as the music fills the space.
Charlie talks about the kind of mother she wants to be, her voice cracking when she admits she’s terrified of repeating Diane’s mistakes.
Adrian sits on the arm of her chair, his hand finding her shoulder with a gentleness that contradicts his usual severity.
“You’re nothing like her,” he says quietly. “You stayed. You fought. You chose love over fear.”
Marcus suggests names, his accent thickening with emotion as he lists Spanish options that make Charlie smile.
I watch her face transform with joy, see the way her body relaxes into the chair, and feel overwhelming gratitude for this strange, perfect life we’re building.
“What will you teach the baby?” Charlie asks, looking at me.
“Music.” The answer comes easily. “And French. And how to find beauty in complicated things.” I play something soft and hopeful, imagining a child’s small hands learning these same keys.
This is the domesticity I’ve always craved.
The family I never thought I’d have after scandal drove me from Paris.
I watch Charlie laugh at something Marcus says, see Adrian’s hand rest on her belly, feeling the baby kick, and know with perfect certainty that I’d choose this again and again.
Hours pass.
Marcus and Adrian doze off, their quiet snores the only other sound in the room.
But Charlie can’t sleep, her mind spinning with possibilities and fears. I stay, sitting beside her on Adrian’s bed, my hand on her belly, feeling the baby move beneath my palm.
“Tell me about Paris,” she whispers.
I describe my childhood, the family I lost when my scandal destroyed everything.
The married vocal coach who ruined my career.
The shame that drove me across an ocean to start over. “I never imagined I’d have this chance again. A family. A home.”
“Are you scared?” Her hazel eyes hold mine. “About being a father?”
“Terrified.” The confession comes easier than I expect. “What if I’m not good enough? What if the baby doesn’t bond with me? What if our unconventional family damages them somehow?”
Charlie takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine. “You’re already a better father than most, just by caring enough to worry.”
The sexual tension between us is palpable despite her pregnancy.
My fingers trace patterns on her skin where the sweater has ridden up, feeling the warmth of her body beneath my touch.
She’s glowing with life, beautiful in ways that make my body respond immediately. I want her desperately, but I also want to protect her, to worship her, to prove I’m worthy of this gift.
Her breath catches as my hand slides higher, finding the curve of her hip. Even now, the heat between us is undeniable. I lean closer, my mouth finding hers, tasting the sweetness there.
Then she gasps, her hand flying to her belly, her face going pale.
“Elijah.” My name comes out strangled. “Something is different.”
My heart stops. “What kind of different? More Braxton Hicks?”
“No, these feel different.” She tries to stand, and I help her, my hands steady despite the terror flooding my system.
She cries out again, doubling over, her fingers digging into my arm.
