[Sophie’s POV]

The week of waiting is simultaneously endless and instantaneous.

Time moves strangely when you’re suspended between knowing and not knowing, each hour stretching like taffy while the days somehow blur together into an indistinguishable haze. The clock on the wall becomes an adversary, its hands crawling through minutes that feel like hours, then suddenly leaping forward to steal time I wasn’t ready to lose.

Maggie continues her cycle of eating, sleeping, and demanding attention with the single-minded focus of a newborn. The rhythm of caring for her provides structure to days that might otherwise dissolve into anxiety. There’s always another diaper to change, another feeding to navigate, another middle-of-the-night crisis that requires all hands on deck. Her needs are immediate, urgent, leaving no room for the spiral of thoughts that threaten to pull me under whenever I have a moment to think.

But in the quiet moments—and there are quiet moments, despite everything—I catch Adrian staring at Maggie with that searching expression. Looking for himself in her features, probably. Hoping to see proof that she’s his before the official answer arrives. The intensity of his gaze makes my heart ache, a physical pain that settles behind my ribs and refuses to leave. He studies her tiny face like a scholar examining an ancient text, looking for clues hidden in the curve of her nose, the shape of her ears, the particular way her eyes crinkle when she yawns.

Cassian handles the waiting differently. He throws himself into organizing everything—the nursery, the kitchen, our increasingly chaotic schedules. His coping mechanism has always been control, and there’s something almost comforting about watching him alphabetize the baby books while we wait for results that could shift our entire dynamic. The methodical way he arranges and rearranges, labels and categorizes, is his way of imposing order on a universe that refuses to cooperate. I find him at 2 a.m. reorganizing the pantry by food group, and instead of commenting, I simply kiss his cheek and go back to bed. We all have our ways of surviving.

For my part, I focus on recovery. My body is still adjusting to no longer being pregnant, hormones swinging wildly between exhaustion and euphoria. The chemical storms inside me mirror the emotional turbulence of our household—unpredictable, overwhelming, occasionally beautiful in their intensity. I cry at commercials. I laugh at things that aren’t funny. I hold my daughter and feel love so overwhelming it terrifies me, a vast ocean of emotion that threatens to drown me even as it keeps me afloat.

On day five, I wake up to find Adrian already awake beside me, staring at the ceiling. The gray light of pre-dawn filters through the curtains, casting shadows across his face that make him look older, more fragile than I’ve ever seen him. His eyes are open but unfocused, fixed on some point above us that only he can see.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I whisper, not wanting to wake Cassian on my other side.

“I dreamed about the results,” he admits. His voice is rough, scraped raw by sleeplessness and worry. “Opened the email, and it said… something. I couldn’t read it. The words kept shifting.”

The image breaks my heart—Adrian trapped in a dream where answers dance just out of reach, forever promised but never delivered. I shift closer, pressing my body against his side. The warmth of his skin against mine is grounding, real, a reminder that whatever the test says, we’re still here, still us.

“What do you want it to say?”

The question surprises him. I can feel him tense, then consciously relax. The struggle plays out in the muscles of his body—the automatic deflection, the urge to give the “right” answer, and then the deliberate choice to be honest instead.

“I want it to say she’s mine,” he admits. “Biologically. I know that’s not supposed to matter, and I know it doesn’t change anything practical, but… I want to be her father in every possible way. Not just by choice—by blood.”

“And if she’s Cassian’s?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, processing. I watch the words sink in, watch them settle into the wounded places where doubt has been festering. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion, cracking on syllables that carry the weight of everything he’s feeling.

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.” I smile against his lips, feeling something ease in my own chest—not resolution, not certainty, but hope. The quiet, stubborn hope that has carried us through every impossible moment. “Now go back to sleep. She’s going to be awake in an hour demanding food, and you’re on first shift.”

He laughs, the sound rusty but genuine, a crack of light breaking through clouds. “Yes ma’am.”

We drift back to sleep tangled together, limbs intertwined, hearts beating in synchrony. And when Maggie cries an hour later, her voice piercing the early morning quiet with newborn urgency, Adrian goes to her without complaint. I listen to his footsteps pad across the floor, hear his soft voice murmuring comfort to our daughter, and feel something settle in my soul.

Whatever the test shows, I think we’re going to be okay.