32. Colin
COLIN
“Okay, I’ll play along,” Thalassa says, sounding skeptical. “But you’re really pushing your luck.”
“I like pushing things,” I murmur, slipping the blindfold over her eyes.
She laughs. “If this ends in rope and a new toy, I’m all in. But I don’t know why we couldn’t just stay in my room.”
“We could have,” I say. “But I’ve got something better.”
“I doubt that,” she mutters. “That headboard is basically a jungle gym. Plus, I finally got the pillow arrangement perfect for the belly. This better be good.”
“It’s not a competition,” I say, nudging her gently down the hall, “but I do think you’re going to be impressed.”
“Oh god,” she says, laughing. “That means I won’t be.”
I pause outside the door and take a breath.
This felt like such a good idea. Hell, I still think it is. But now that we’re here, now that I’m about to show her what I did—I’m nervous in a way I haven’t been in a long time.
I want her to love it. I want her to feel seen.
Not just the part of her that’s carrying our babies, but the part that came from a little island, whose parents speak about sea life like it’s sacred, whose face lights up when she sees starfish sculptures in hotel lobbies, then looks away from them like she has to hide that part of herself.
This nursery is for her.
I open the door, guide her in. “Ready?”
“I swear, Colin, if you filled a room with balloons or something, I’m going to trip and take you down with me.”
“Deal.” I lift the blindfold.
She blinks. Her mouth parts. And then she bolts.
It takes me three full seconds to register what just happened.
Three seconds of standing in the center of the sea-themed nursery—the coral reef ceiling, the wave-colored carpets, the gentle light from the bubble-shaped sconces on the walls—and trying to figure out where I went wrong.
Then I’m running after her.
She makes it halfway down the hallway before she collapses to the floor with her back against the wall, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. She’s shaking. Hard. Her breath is coming in short, sharp bursts. Like she can’t catch it. Like the room around her is disappearing.
My stomach drops. This isn’t surprise. This isn’t overwhelmed happiness. This is terror.
I drop to my knees in front of her. “Sweets. Hey—hey, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe. Can you breathe with me?”
She shakes her head, eyes wild. Her whole body trembles, and I feel completely fucking useless.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, moving beside her and gently pulling her into my arms. I’m shocked that she lets me do it. “I’ve got you.”
Her face presses into my chest. Her fists clutch the front of my shirt. And all I can do is hold her while she shakes and sobs, heart pounding like a trapped animal.
Mrs. Culpepper comes down the hall, her permanent scowl lining her face. The glare she shoots me could kill a lesser man. But she sees that Thalassa is clinging to me, not pushing me away. With two fingers, she points at her own eyes, then me.
A warning.
I have no doubt she’ll see to it that Thalassa’s favorite lemon tart is on the menu for supper tonight. And I’ll probably get a rotten toad in my bed.
That’s fine. I made Thalassa cry. I deserve worse.
Mrs. Culpepper leaves, but I sense she’s not too far away and watching everything I do. I don’t blame her for that either.
It takes a long time before Thalassa’s breathing starts to slow. Even longer before her shoulders stop quivering. I don’t say anything. I don’t ask. I just rub small circles on her back and wait.
When she finally speaks, her voice is raw. “It looked like the ocean.”
“I thought you’d love it,” I say softly. “With your parents’ work, and where you grew up?—”
“I do love the ocean,” she whispers. “But I almost died in it.”
That stops me cold.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes still red, but steadier now. “The hurricane. You know that already. But what you don’t know is…we couldn’t evacuate in time.”
I listen.
“We always had time before. But that one hit faster. Our radios were down. The water kept rising, kept coming in.” She drags her fingers through her hair.
“Waist high, and then a rush of it over our heads. I was in the water, trying to save my mom. I found her. We clung to some busted wood for a float, and then we had to try to find Dad. He was pinned between some heavy equipment.”
“Shit.”
“His arm got mangled, but we got him out. Then the waves knocked the wood out from under us. I went down; I’m a good swimmer, but I still went down under all that raw power…
And for a while, I didn’t think I’d get out.
I didn’t know if I’d get another breath.
That room—Colin, it felt like being pulled under again. ”
I close my eyes. God. I didn’t know. I wrap my arms tighter around her, holding her like I should’ve held the idea before I threw it at her.
I was so proud of that nursery. And now I just feel like a jackass.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I whisper into her hair.
“I didn’t know. I saw the way you tensed at the tub, or flinched when you passed the pool, but I thought…
I don’t know what I thought. Maybe it was just about that night.
Or that you were still shaken up about everything…
I know we’re not the easiest people to deal with?—”
“It’s not your fault,” she says quietly, her voice still hoarse. “You were trying to do something beautiful for me.”
“I meant it for all of us,” I murmur. “Not just for you. Not just to show you I was listening, or that I’d been snooping on your Pinterest boards—which, by the way, you should really lock down. I meant it for our babies. I meant it for us. I thought…this could be our anchor.”
She exhales shakily. “You’re allowed to be excited about the babies too.”
“I am excited,” I say. “Even with the hormones and the screaming and the sleepless nights and the mystery poop and the fact that I’ll probably step on at least a hundred rubber ducks before they turn three. I want this. We all do.”
Her eyes shimmer again. “Even if I can’t…I don’t know…even if I can’t bathe them?”
I blink. “Thalassa.”
“I panicked in a nursery, Colin. What happens when they’re here and they need a bath and I can’t?—”
“Then we bathe them,” I say. “We hold them. We swaddle them. We check the water temp three times. We make duck voices. We make it gentle. And we never, ever pressure you.”
She tries to speak, but her throat catches.
“And maybe,” I say carefully, “when you’re ready, you’ll try again. Maybe you’ll just sit on the floor while one of us does it. Or maybe you’ll peek your head in. Or maybe you’ll hum lullabies from the hallway. And maybe, someday, you’ll step closer.”
She nods, slowly. “I want to be the one who teaches them to swim,” she whispers. “It used to be my favorite thing in the world.”
“And it can be again,” I say. “But one step at a time. Maybe the nursery stays dry. But you walk past it. You let yourself glance in. Just a second. Just a heartbeat longer each day.”
She leans her head against my chest again. “You’re really good at this.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice with fear,” I say. “Tech launches. Public speaking. Love.”
That makes her laugh, the sound muffled in my shirt.
“I thought I was going to be the worst mom,” she says, voice cracking. “Like, right out the gate. Can’t bathe them. Can’t let them near pools. Can’t even look at a sea-themed paint job.”
“Hey,” I say, tipping her chin up to meet my eyes.
“You are already the best mom I know. You’re worried about doing it right.
You care about doing it right. That’s the hardest part, and you’ve already nailed it.
And you’re not alone. You have three, somewhat capable men happy to parent their children too. ”
She smiles through the tears. “God, that was such a Hallmark moment.”
“I try.”
She sniffles. “I’m gonna have to redo that whole nursery, huh?”
“Only if you want to. I mean…I was thinking maybe we could do a totally dry sea theme. Like, no fish. Just coral. Seashells. Driftwood. Land crab chic.”
She laughs again, properly this time.
“Oh my god,” she says, leaning into me. “That’s hideous.”
“I know.” I grin. “But you smiled.”
We don’t move right away.
She stays curled into me, back against the wall, fingers tucked inside my shirt like she needs the fabric, not just the skin. I could stay like this for hours—her breath finally steady, her body softening against mine, the worst of the panic fading into something quieter.
“I really do want to love the nursery,” she murmurs. “I want to walk in there and feel happy and safe and excited. I just…can’t yet.”
“That’s okay,” I say, brushing her hair off her cheek. “You don’t have to love it today. Or tomorrow. You can let us walk you through it.”
“Through the nursery?”
“Through all of it.”
She sighs. “I hate that you’re good at this.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Okay, fine. I don’t. But I reserve the right to mock you later.”
“I’m doing it in my head already.”
She tilts her face toward mine. Her lips are close. Her eyes are still a little watery, but the expression there is stronger now, more grounded. Something like gratitude. Something like trust.
“I was scared,” she says softly. “And you didn’t back away.”
“Never.”
Her kiss comes slowly, gently. A question, not a demand.
I answer without hesitation.
It’s not hungry this time. Not rough or fast or heated with frustration. It’s tender, full of all the things we couldn’t say in the first five minutes of a breakdown.
It’s I see you.
It’s you’re safe here.
It’s thank you for not leaving.
She pulls me closer, and I lift her carefully, one hand under her thighs, the other cradling her back. She’s heavier now with the pregnancy, but I’d carry her forever if it meant she kept looking at me the way she does right now—open and unafraid.
I lay her down on the wide couch tucked in the corner of the second-floor library. It’s rarely used—mostly for napping in between chaotic board meetings or post-holiday coma recoveries. Right now, it’s perfect.
She cups my face. “You really think I can get through this?”
“I know you can.”
I settle beside her, hands roaming her curves, slow and deliberate. I know where her body is sore, where the tension lingers. I don’t rush her. I don’t try to make this about escape.
We’re already here. Together.
Our lips meet again, deeper this time. Her fingers find the back of my neck, and my palm slips under her shirt to rest against the bare curve of her belly. She gasps into my mouth.
I don’t ask if she’s okay. I know she is.
She guides my hand lower, and I follow her lead. Her breath catches. Mine does too.
We move together in the quiet, surrounded by shadows and soft lamplight. It’s the first time I’ve made love to someone who cried in my arms that same hour—and all I want to do is hold her through both.
This is intimacy. Not sex. Not heat. This.
This quiet honesty. This absolute trust. This trembling vulnerability and the softness we make room for inside it.
When she comes apart beneath me, it’s not a scream or a shudder—it’s a sigh. Like she’s finally, finally letting herself exhale. I follow seconds later, her name slipping past my lips in reverence. And then we just lie there.
No words.
Just her breathing in sync with mine. My hand, still pressed against her belly. My heart, full in a way I didn’t think it could be.
And for the first time since I showed her that nursery, I let myself believe she might willingly walk into it again one day, smiling.