[Cassian’s POV]

The ultrasound photo lives in my wallet now, tucked behind my driver’s license where I’ll see it every time I reach for identification.

It’s been three days since the appointment, and I’ve looked at it approximately forty-seven times. The grainy black-and-white image of something that barely looks human but is undeniably alive. A heartbeat I heard with my own ears, rapid and fierce, announcing its existence to a room full of people who had no idea how to process it.

I’m sitting at Sophie’s kitchen table, laptop open, pretending to work while she naps in the bedroom. Adrian left an hour ago for a faculty meeting he couldn’t reschedule, extracting a promise from me to text updates every thirty minutes. The domesticity of it all still catches me off guard sometimes—how quickly we’ve fallen into routines, how naturally the three of us have learned to orbit each other.

But underneath the routine, something gnaws at me. Something I haven’t voiced because voicing it feels like betrayal.

The baby might not be mine.

I know what we agreed. I know the words I said—it doesn’t matter, biology is just information, this child will have two fathers who love them. I meant every syllable when I spoke them. I still mean them now.

But meaning something and feeling it are different beasts entirely.

I pull out the ultrasound photo again, studying the small flutter of pixels that represents a heartbeat. This tiny life is half Sophie—that much is certain. The other half is a question mark that we’ve collectively decided to ignore. We never did the paternity test. Sophie said she didn’t need to know, and Adrian and I agreed because pushing felt wrong. Because the not-knowing seemed like the more generous choice.

Now I wonder if the not-knowing is actually harder.

If the baby is Adrian’s, biologically speaking, where does that leave me? Not legally—we’ve already discussed adding both names to the birth certificate, consulting lawyers about custody arrangements that protect everyone. But emotionally. Instinctively. When the child is born with Adrian’s eyes or Adrian’s stubborn jaw, will I feel like a father? Or will I feel like an interloper, playing pretend at a role that was never truly mine?

The thought makes my chest tight with a shame I can’t fully articulate.

“You’re brooding.”

Sophie’s voice startles me. I look up to find her standing in the hallway, wrapped in a blanket, hair mussed from sleep. She looks better than she did two weeks ago—color in her cheeks, weight slowly returning to her frame—but there are still shadows under her eyes that haven’t fully faded.

“I’m working,” I counter.

“Your laptop’s been on the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes. I can see the reflection in the window.” She pads toward me, her bare feet quiet on the hardwood. “What’s wrong?”

I should lie. I should deflect, the way I’ve been deflecting for days, protecting her from concerns that aren’t her burden to carry. But she’s looking at me with that expression—the one that says she already knows something’s off and is just waiting for me to admit it.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I try anyway.

“Cassian.” She settles into the chair across from me, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “We promised. No more secrets.”

The reminder lands like a gentle blow. She’s right. We made that promise together, all three of us, sitting in this very kitchen while the afternoon light faded around us.

I close my laptop and take a breath.

“I’ve been thinking about the baby,” I say carefully. “About what happens when they’re born.”

“What about it?”

“About whether…” I stop, struggling to find words that don’t sound accusatory or self-pitying. “About how I’ll feel. If they look like Adrian. If there’s no part of them that’s recognizably mine.”

Sophie is quiet for a long moment. I watch her process what I’m saying, her expression shifting through surprise and understanding and something that looks almost like relief.

“I wondered when you’d bring this up,” she admits.

“You knew I was thinking about it?”

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