[Adrian’s POV]

The dinner with Cleo goes better than expected.

I spent most of the afternoon stress-cooking—a term Sophie invented specifically to describe my habit of channeling anxiety into elaborate meals. By the time Cleo arrives, the apartment smells like roasted garlic and fresh herbs, and I’ve made enough food for approximately twelve people.

“You’re nervous,” Sophie observes, watching me rearrange the place settings for the third time.

“I’m not nervous. I’m thorough.”

“You alphabetized the spice rack while the sauce was simmering.”

“It needed organizing.”

She catches my hand, stilling my restless movements. “Adrian. She already likes you more than she did a month ago. The bar is on the floor.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“It should be. You’ve cleared it. Now stop fidgeting and let the woman eat your food.”

Cleo arrives with wine she can’t drink and Sophie can’t drink, which means Cassian and I end up splitting the bottle while the two of them sip sparkling water and exchange looks that suggest entire conversations happening in frequencies we can’t hear.

“This is good,” Cleo admits halfway through the main course, gesturing at her plate with obvious reluctance. “Like, actually good.”

“You sound surprised,” I say.

“I assumed you were the type to burn water.”

“That’s a cruel stereotype.”

“It’s based on the time Sophie told me you set off the smoke alarm making toast.”

Sophie winces. “I told you that in confidence.”

“Nothing is in confidence when it’s that funny.”

The conversation flows easier than I expected. Cleo asks about the pregnancy—how Sophie’s feeling, what the doctor said, whether the nausea has improved. She asks about our plans without the sharp edge that used to accompany her questions, like she’s genuinely curious rather than looking for evidence of incompetence.

“So you’re both just… staying here?” she asks eventually, glancing between Cassian and me. “In a one-bedroom apartment?”

“For now,” Cassian says. “We’re taking things one step at a time.”

“That’s very zen of you.”

“It’s practical. Sophie needed stability, not upheaval. Moving or making big changes felt counterproductive.”

Cleo’s gaze shifts to Sophie. “And you’re okay with this? Two men hovering around your space constantly?”

Sophie considers the question. “It’s an adjustment. But it’s also… nice. Having people around. Not feeling like I have to handle everything alone.”

“That’s new.”

“I’m trying new things. Apparently almost dying makes you reevaluate your coping mechanisms.”

The words land with a weight that briefly silences the table. Cleo’s expression flickers—something raw passing across her features before she schools them back into neutrality.

“I’m glad you’re reevaluating,” she says quietly. “I’m glad you’re letting people help.”

“I’m glad you didn’t let me get on that train.”

“You collapsed before I had the chance to physically restrain you, so I can’t take full credit.”

“Take partial credit. You earned it.”

They share a look that excludes everyone else in the room—years of friendship compressed into a single glance. I feel Cassian shift beside me, both of us recognizing that this is something we can’t be part of. The bond between Sophie and Cleo predates us, will outlast any romantic configuration we manage to build.

“Okay,” Cleo says, breaking the moment with a brisk tone. “I have questions for the two of you.”

I straighten instinctively. “What kind of questions?”

“The practical kind. What happens when the baby comes? Who’s taking parental leave? How are you handling finances? What’s the legal situation?”

“Cleo,” Sophie protests.

“No, she’s right,” Cassian says. “These are things we need to figure out.”

“We’ve discussed some of it,” I add. “Not all of it. But some.”

Cleo raises an eyebrow. “So discuss it now. Consider this a practice run for all the awkward conversations in your future.”

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