[Sophie’s POV]

Three days at the apartment, and I’m finally starting to feel human again.

The nausea has eased to a manageable level—present but no longer overwhelming. The bone-deep exhaustion is fading, replaced by something closer to normal tiredness. My hands have stopped trembling when I reach for things.

Progress. Slow and fragile, but progress.

Adrian and Cassian have been true to their word. They show up every day, but they don’t crowd. They bring food and sit with me while I eat, but they don’t comment on how much or how little I consume. They ask how I’m feeling, but they accept “I don’t know” as an answer without pushing for more.

It’s strange, watching them together. The sharp edges that used to define their interactions have softened into something more like coordination. They still don’t agree on everything—I can see the tension sometimes, flickering beneath the surface—but they’ve stopped making their disagreements my problem.

I don’t know if it will last. I don’t know if they can sustain this new equilibrium once the crisis fades and normal life resumes.

But for now, it’s enough.

Today, though, something shifts.

Cleo leaves for work in the morning, pressing a kiss to my forehead and extracting a promise that I’ll actually eat the breakfast she left in the fridge. Adrian arrives an hour later, followed shortly by Cassian. They settle into their usual positions—Adrian in the armchair, Cassian on the floor—but there’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there yesterday.

“What?” I ask, setting down my tea.

They exchange a look. The kind of look that says they’ve discussed this beforehand. That they have an agenda.

“We need to talk about something,” Adrian says carefully.

My stomach clenches. “About what?”

“The baby.” Cassian’s voice is steady, but I can see the effort it takes to keep it that way. “Specifically, about whether we want to find out paternity.”

The question I’ve been dreading. The one I’ve pushed to the back of my mind every time it threatens to surface.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter,” I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

“It doesn’t,” Adrian says immediately. “Not to how we feel about you. Not to our commitment.”

“But?”

Cassian leans forward, his expression serious. “But there are practical considerations. Medical history. What we tell the baby when they’re old enough to ask. How we structure things legally.”

“Structure things?”

“Custody,” he clarifies. “Financial responsibility. What happens if—” He stops, visibly choosing his words. “What happens in any number of future scenarios we can’t predict.”

The adult in me knows he’s right. The panicking pregnant woman wants to curl into a ball and refuse to engage.

“I’ve been thinking about it too,” I admit. “Every time I try to imagine the future, I hit a wall. Because I don’t know how to plan for something when one of the most fundamental facts is still a question mark.”

Adrian moves from the armchair to the couch beside me, close enough to touch but not touching. “We’re not pressuring you to decide anything right now. We just want to put the option on the table.”

“What option?”

“There’s a test,” Cassian says. “Non-invasive. Safe for you and the baby. We could know in a few weeks if you wanted to.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Then we don’t do it.” His answer is immediate. “That’s a valid choice too.”

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