[Sophie’s POV]

The weeks that follow are a study in careful balance.

Adrian throws himself into exploring alternatives to traditional academic positions, spending hours researching consulting firms and publishing opportunities and independent think tanks that might value his expertise without requiring him to navigate the political minefield Vaughn has created.

Cassian helps where he can, bringing his analytical mind to bear on job listings and networking strategies, approaching Adrian’s career crisis with the same methodical attention he brings to everything.

And I… I grow.

Maggie is five months along now, and my body has transformed in ways that still startle me when I catch my reflection unexpectedly. The small curve that was barely visible a few weeks ago has become undeniably pregnant—a round swell beneath my clothes that strangers notice, that prompts unsolicited advice from well-meaning women in grocery stores, that makes subway seats magically available when they weren’t before.

I’m learning to accept help. It’s harder than I expected. Every offered hand feels like an admission of weakness, every kindness a debt I’m not sure I can repay. The independence I’ve clung to for so long loosens its grip reluctantly, finger by finger, leaving me raw and uncertain in its absence.

Today is a good day. The nausea that plagued my first trimester has finally faded, replaced by an appetite that both men find amusing and occasionally alarming. The energy that abandoned me for months has started to return, leaving me restless in a way that demands activity. Sunlight streams through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the floor, and something in my chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.

“I want to do something,” I announce over breakfast, setting down my fork with more force than necessary. “Something that isn’t sitting in this apartment waiting for the next crisis to hit.”

Adrian looks up from his laptop, where he’s been drafting a proposal for a consulting opportunity that actually seems promising. Cassian pauses mid-bite, his eyebrows raised in that expression of careful curiosity I’ve come to recognize.

“What kind of something?” Adrian asks.

“I don’t know. Something normal. Something that regular pregnant women do that doesn’t involve conspiracy theories or career sabotage or figuring out how to explain our relationship to nosy strangers.”

I gesture vaguely at the apartment, at the walls that have started to feel confining despite their comfort. “I feel like we’ve been in crisis mode for months. And I know there are real crises happening—I’m not dismissing that. But I need a break. We all need a break.”

Cassian and Adrian exchange one of those looks they’ve developed—silent communication that used to make me feel excluded and now just makes me feel known. They’re checking in with each other, making sure they’re aligned before responding.

“What did you have in mind?” Cassian asks.

The question catches me off guard. I’d been so focused on expressing the need that I hadn’t actually thought through the specifics. But as I consider it, an idea forms—something that’s been hovering at the edges of my consciousness for weeks.

“The baby class,” I say slowly. “The one Dr. Patel mentioned at our last appointment. Prenatal yoga and birthing preparation. I’ve been putting it off because… I don’t know, it felt too normal. Too much like admitting that this is actually happening.”

“It is actually happening,” Adrian points out gently. “In about four months, we’re going to have a daughter. Preparing for that seems reasonable.”

“I know. But preparing means accepting. And accepting means…” I trail off, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions beneath my reluctance. “It means letting myself want this. Fully. Without reservation. And every time I do that, something goes wrong.”

The confession lands between us with the weight of everything I’ve been carrying. The collapse. The hospital. The Stanford rejection. A lifetime of learning that hope is dangerous, that wanting things only leads to losing them. My throat tightens around words I can’t quite speak—the fear that joy is just grief waiting to happen.

Cassian moves first, sliding out of his chair and coming to kneel beside mine. His hand finds my knee, warm and grounding.

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