[Sophie’s POV]

The first night alone in my apartment is harder than I expected.

Adrian and Cassian offered to stay—both of them, rotating shifts the way they did at the hospital—but I insisted I needed to try. Needed to prove to myself that I could exist in this space without falling apart. Without reaching for a suitcase. Without disappearing.

Now it’s 2 a.m., and I’m starting to regret my stubbornness.

The apartment feels different in the dark. Shadows stretch across familiar surfaces, turning them foreign. The refrigerator hums too loudly. The floorboards creak in places I don’t remember creaking before. Every sound makes me flinch, my body still primed for flight even though my mind knows there’s nothing to run from anymore.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, one hand pressed against my stomach.

“It’s just us,” I whisper to the darkness. “You and me.”

The baby doesn’t respond, of course. It’s too early for kicks, too early for any tangible proof of the life growing inside me beyond the nausea and exhaustion and the terrifying knowledge that I’m responsible for someone other than myself now.

I think about the letters I tore up yesterday. The words I wrote at 3 a.m., trying to explain myself to two men I was too afraid to face. I don’t regret destroying them—they belonged to a version of me I’m trying to leave behind—but I wonder what Adrian and Cassian would have felt reading them. Would they have understood? Would they have been angry? Would they have come after me anyway, or would they have let me go?

The uncertainty gnaws at me, even though it shouldn’t matter anymore. I’m here. They’re here. We’re trying to build something together.

But the fear doesn’t care about logic. The fear whispers that this is temporary. That eventually they’ll realize I’m more trouble than I’m worth. That the baby will become a burden instead of a blessing, and they’ll start to resent me for trapping them in a situation they never asked for.

I sit up abruptly, my chest tight with the familiar pressure of panic.

“Stop it,” I tell myself firmly. “You’re spiraling. This is what spiraling feels like.”

I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it. The screen glows too bright in the darkness, and I squint at the contact list, thumb hovering between two names.

Adrian would answer immediately. He’d probably be at my door within twenty minutes, armed with takeout and bad jokes and the kind of aggressive optimism that used to annoy me and now feels like a lifeline.

Cassian would be calmer about it. He’d talk me through the panic on the phone, his voice low and steady, asking questions that help me identify what I’m actually afraid of versus what my anxiety is manufacturing.

I don’t call either of them.

Instead, I get out of bed and walk to the kitchen, filling a glass of water and drinking it slowly. The mundane action grounds me slightly. I’m here. I’m real. This apartment is real. The future I’m afraid of hasn’t happened yet and might never happen.

My phone buzzes, and I nearly drop the glass.

Cassian: Can’t sleep. You?

I stare at the message, something warm blooming in my chest. He’s thinking about me at 2 a.m. He’s worried without being intrusive. He’s giving me space while still making sure I know he’s there.

Sophie: Wide awake. The apartment feels weird.

His response comes immediately: Weird how?

Sophie: Too quiet. Too empty. Too full of memories.

A pause. Then: Do you want company? I can be there in fifteen minutes.

I consider saying no. Consider insisting I’m fine, I can handle this, I don’t need rescuing.

But that’s the old Sophie. The Sophie who packed suitcases and wrote goodbye letters and collapsed alone on her kitchen floor.

Sophie: Yes. Please.

Cassian: On my way.

I set down my phone and take another sip of water, the panic receding slightly now that I have something to wait for. Someone to wait for.

Fifteen minutes later, there’s a soft knock at my door. I open it to find Cassian in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair disheveled, his eyes alert despite the hour.

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