[Cassian’s POV]

The apartment search begins in earnest the following week.

Sophie insists on being involved despite our attempts to handle the logistics ourselves. “It’s my life too,” she points out reasonably. “I should probably have input on where I’m going to live.”

“We were trying to narrow down the options before overwhelming you with choices,” I explain.

“I’m pregnant, not incapacitated. I can look at apartment listings.”

So we look at apartment listings. Dozens of them, scrolling through websites in the evenings, debating neighborhoods and square footage and proximity to hospitals and parks.

“This one has a nursery,” Adrian says, turning his laptop toward us.

“That’s a closet,” Sophie replies.

“It says nursery.”

“It’s a closet with optimistic marketing.”

“This one has three bedrooms,” I offer. “And it’s close to the university.”

Sophie leans over to look at my screen. “It’s also twice our budget.”

“Budget is flexible.”

“Budget is flexible for you. Some of us don’t have professor salaries.”

“We’ve talked about this. Pooled resources—”

“I know what we talked about. I’m still not comfortable spending money I didn’t earn.”

The conversation circles back to familiar territory—Sophie’s discomfort with financial dependence, her need to contribute equally, her fear of becoming a burden. We’ve had versions of this discussion multiple times now. Progress is slow.

“What if we approached it differently?” Adrian suggests. “What if we each contributed proportionally? Based on income rather than equal amounts?”

Sophie frowns. “That still means you two are paying more.”

“Yes, but it’s fair. I make more than you do right now. When you’re back to work, the proportions shift.”

“And if I’m not back to work for a while? Babies are expensive. Childcare is expensive. What if I need to—”

“Then we adjust,” I interrupt gently. “That’s the point. We’re building something flexible enough to accommodate changes. You’re not signing a contract that locks you into one configuration forever.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing. I can see the internal struggle—the part of her that wants to accept help warring with the part that’s been conditioned to rely only on herself.

“I hate this,” she admits finally. “I hate feeling like I can’t pull my weight.”

“You’re growing a human,” Adrian points out. “I’d say that’s pulling significant weight.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s literally creating life. It’s the most significant weight anyone can pull.”

Sophie laughs despite herself. “You’re very determined to make me feel better.”

“I’m very determined to make you see reality. Which includes the fact that right now, your job is taking care of yourself and the baby. Everything else is secondary.”

I reach over and take her hand, running my thumb across her knuckles. “We’re not keeping score. This isn’t a transaction where everyone has to contribute equally at all times. Sometimes you’ll carry more. Sometimes we will. That’s how partnerships work.”

“Is that from one of your self-help books?”

“It’s from basic logic. You should try it sometime.”

She pinches my arm, but she’s smiling.

We eventually find a place—a two-bedroom apartment with a small office that could become a nursery, located halfway between Adrian’s university and the hospital. The building has an elevator, which Sophie points out will be crucial when she’s enormous and unable to climb stairs.

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