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“You look good,” he says, which is the kind of thing people say when they don’t actually know what to say. “Considering.”

“Considering I was kidnapped, sure.”

His wife makes a small sound.

Caleb’s eyes drop to my stomach, and I watch him do the math, badly, his mouth opening and closing once before he actually says anything. “You’re—” He stops, glances at his wife like he’s checking whether it’s rude to finish the sentence, then just goes for it. “Are you pregnant?”

“Yeah.” I don’t offer more than that.

“With him? With Artem?”

“Yes, Caleb, with Artem.” I keep my voice flat, daring him to make this weirder than it already is. “We’re together. Have been for a while now. I’ll explain the rest of it eventually. Not all of it makes for good conversation over coffee.”

He nods slowly, clearly deciding not to push, the same instinct he’s had his whole life for backing away from anything that requires real follow-up. “Okay. Wow. Congratulations, I guess.”

“Thanks.”

“We would’ve come sooner,” Caleb says, sitting across from me instead of beside me, “but Yuri said you needed time to recover first. We didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“That’s considerate.”

“We’ve just had a lot going on too. Poppy’s been a nightmare with her teeth; we’ve barely slept.” He laughs, short and self-conscious. “Not that that’s the same, obviously. I just mean, it’s been a whole thing on our end too.”

I let that sit there without responding right away, watching him fill the silence with more words about himself, the same reflex I remember from every phone call that’s ever mattered to me and not to him.

His wife stays quiet on the couch, hands folded in her lap, eyes flicking toward the door every so often like she’s counting down to when this is socially acceptable to end.

“How’s Poppy?” I ask instead of addressing any of it, because I genuinely want to know, and because it’s easier than watching him keep failing to ask me a real question.

His whole face brightens at that, and for a few minutes the conversation feels normal, him pulling up pictures on his phone, describing some new word she’s learned, his wife finally chiming in with a story about a mess involving spaghetti and a white shirt that isn’t white anymore.

I laugh in the right places. I ask the right follow-up questions. And underneath all of it, I notice exactly how much easier this conversation is for both than the one we’re actually supposed to be having.

“So,” Caleb says eventually, setting his phone down, some awkwardness creeping back into his posture now that the easy topic’s run its course. “Are you doing okay? Really?”

“Really. It’s been a lot, but I’m okay.”

“I bet.” He nods, looking at me like he’s waiting for me to elaborate so he doesn’t have to ask a follow-up question that might actually cost him something. “You know you can always call, right? If you need anything.”

I think about the last time I called him. I think about the game in the background, the fifty seconds, the promise to call back that never came. I think about how easy it would be to say all of that right now, watch his face fall the way it would, and how little satisfaction I’d actually get from it.

I don’t say any of that out loud, not today, not with his wife sitting three feet away in a room she clearly wants to leave. “I know,” I say instead, keeping my voice light, easy, the same worn-in deflection I’ve been using with him for years now without ever fully deciding to.

Artem appears in the doorway not long after that, not intruding exactly. Caleb straightens slightly at the sight of him, some old instinct toward deference kicking in even though nobody’s asked him to feel it, the same reaction most people seem to have around a man who owns this much house.

“Artem.” Caleb stands, extending a hand that gets shaken firmly and briefly. “Thank you for everything you did. Getting her back and all that.”

“She’s safe. That’s what matters.” Artem’s voice carries none of the performance Caleb’s has all afternoon, plain and steady in a way that makes the contrast between the two of them almost uncomfortable to sit inside of. “I’ll leave you to your visit.”

He catches my eye once before he goes, something checking in wordlessly, and I give him the smallest nod to let him know I’m fine, that I don’t need rescuing from this particular room the way I needed it from the last one.

He nods back and disappears down the hall, and I watch Caleb watch him go, something unreadable crossing his face that I don’t have the energy to decode today.

The visit winds down not long after that, Caleb checking his watch, his wife already halfway to standing before he even suggests it.

The hug at the door is quicker than the one when they arrived, and I don’t miss the relief in his wife’s shoulders the second they’re back outside, like she’s just successfully survived something she’d been dreading all week, her whole posture loosening the moment the front door closes behind them.

“We’ll come back soon,” Caleb says, already halfway to the car. “Maybe bring Poppy next time, once things settle more.”