He looks up slowly. “I’m sending a message.”
“To who?”
His eyes flick to Sofia, then back to me. “You.”
My phone buzzes.
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
He’s dead serious.
I pick up my phone, and I open the message.
Ethan: You look good in my kitchen.
I blink.
Then I look at him again, and he’s watching me like he knows exactly what that does to me.
I type back.
Me: I’m wearing stained leggings and a nursing tank.
His reply comes fast.
Ethan: Still mine.
My stomach flips, and it’s ridiculous because I’m standing in my own kitchen, three months postpartum, holding coffee grounds like a weapon, and I still feel like I’m about to do something reckless.
I glance at Sofia.
She’s staring at her own hand.
I type.
Me: Please stop sexting me in front of our child.
Ethan’s mouth twitches.
Ethan: She can’t read.
I glare.
Me: She can sense vibes.
He doesn’t even pretend to be ashamed.
Ethan: Good. Let her learn early.
I bark out a laugh, then immediately check Sofia because laughing too loud feels like tempting fate.
Sofia makes a happy little noise, and Ethan’s gaze softens again.
Then my phone buzzes.
Ethan: Come here.
I look up. “You are here.”
