Chapter 8 Melanie
Melanie
I unlock my apartment and push the door open with my hip, and suddenly there’s Lucas—in my space—all height and quiet, taking everything in with that scan he does.
It’s not nosy. It’s… professional. Door swing, sightlines, windows, the rug that always tries to trip you.
His gaze skips over the gallery wall (film shots, messy frames), the plant I forgot to water (sorry, Fern-ando), the half-folded laundry on a chair, the brand-new crib instructions still on the coffee table like the aftermath of a tiny hurricane.
It’s exactly the scene I’ve replayed in my head a hundred ways since March—him here, me here—except the version in my head didn’t include hospital bracelets and discharge paperwork and my heart ricocheting around my ribs like a pinball.
“Shoes off?” he asks, hovering by the entry like he’s trying not to creak on anything important.
“Yeah,” I say, sliding mine off with a grunt. “The floor squeaks when it’s mad.”
He huffs a laugh, toeing off his boots. The laugh hits warmer than it should.
A knock. I jump, then realize—my dinner. Lucas is already moving, opening the door to a teenage delivery guy who beams when he sees my belly.
“Congrats!” the kid chirps, handing over two stapled paper bags. “Extra soy sauce in there.”
“Bless you,” I say, near tears at the sight of lo mein. Pregnancy is a constant emotional rollercoaster.
Lucas handled getting his order and my order sent here. And was coordinating with them the whole time to ensure it would arrive right when we got home. Such a small gesture, but it still makes my heart swoon.
We unload on the counter. Lucas arranges cartons with tactical precision—rice, lo mein, orange chicken, crab rangoon like a compass rose. “Water first,” he says, filling a glass and setting it in front of me like it’s a mission parameter. “Hydration.”
“Yes, Captain Safety,” I tease, but I drink. It helps, actually.
He doesn’t press. He doesn’t even circle the subject like a shark the way I expected. He asks, “How are you feeling now?” and waits for the real answer, not the polite one.
“Better,” I admit. “Less… belt-tighten-y. Also starving.”
He gestures to the feast. “Problem set with an obvious solution.”
We eat at the counter, elbows bumping, cartons between us like a buffet. He listens while I talk about Baby Bungalow and the Great Llama Avalanche. I listen while he tells me a sanitized version of the job—holiday party details, nothing identifying, just enough to know he’s here until January.
He uses chopsticks like he could perform surgery, and I alternate between them and a fork because the baby demands both speed and elegance.
When I praise Dragon Garden’s crab rangoon, he nods solemnly like we’ve just agreed on a treaty.
It’s absurdly normal, and if I don’t watch myself, I could fall in love with something this soft and domestic without noticing.
His eyes flick to the living room. “You put the crib together?”
“With Amelia. There was swearing.” I sip water. “And tears. Mainly mine.”
“Corner anchors?” he asks.
“Anchored,” I say, pointing. “You can check if you want.” Kind of hoping he takes me up on my offer.
“Okay.” he whispers, meaning it.
We clear the cartons together. He rinses as I load the dishes. The rhythm is easy. Dangerous, my brain whispers. I ignore it and lead him to the couch with the gelatinous grace of a very pregnant penguin.
We end up turned toward each other, knees almost touching, each with an elbow hooked over the back cushion and a hand propping our heads like mirror images.
His other hand drifts to the couch between us, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm.
I stare at those fingers—strong, careful—and think about how they felt on my elbow, on my pulse, on the edge of panic smoothing it flat.
Then, without even trying… I remember more. His hands on my waist by a roaring fire. His hands in my hair. Me moaning his name. I nearly cry when I think about the orgasms he gave me that night.
He stops tapping and interlaces his fingers with mine as if he’s thinking the very same thoughts.
My whole body zings like someone plugged me into a warm outlet. It’s a simple thing—palms fitted, fingers threaded—but it’s also not simple at all. I feel it in my chest, in the baby’s little flurry, in the way the room narrows to this point of contact.
He watches our hands for a beat, then looks up. His eyes fixed on mine. I get lost in them. “How far along are you?” he asks gently. “Week-wise.” He adds, almost like a footnote, “Braxton Hicks usually show up later. Not always, but—”
The math is back in his eyes. I see it click through him like a tide chart. I swallow. My mouth goes cotton-dry, which is rude because I just drank two rivers.
“Thirty-one weeks,” I say. My voice comes out thin. “Tomorrow.”
He nods once. The smallest shift. He’s not pushing, not interrogating. He’s giving me space, which is somehow worse because I have to walk into it on my own. The truth is a door I’ve been orbiting for months.
“I need to—” I start, then stop. The baby kicks, a soft drum against my palm, as if to say say it. I blow out a breath. “There’s no Freddy.”
Silence. We both watch the sentence settle between us like a snowflake that weighs a thousand pounds.
“There was never a Freddy,” I correct, words tumbling faster now that they’re loose.
“It was—a panic answer. Yesterday. You asked if the baby wasn’t yours and I heard—and I remembered—you saying you don’t do complicated, and this is…
every kind of complicated. And I didn’t want to be the person who dropped a grenade into your life in a fluorescent baby store with a donut in my hand. ”
His face doesn’t change much, but something tight in the set of his mouth eases a millimeter. He doesn’t speak, and the silent patience is worse than any reaction I rehearsed in my head. I keep going, because if I stop I won’t start again.
“I should’ve told you months ago,” I say, hating how raw my voice sounds.
“You called. I saw it. I just… froze. I told myself I could do this alone—I can do this alone—but that wasn’t the whole truth.
The whole truth is I was scared to need you.
I was scared to be wrong about you. I was scared to be right about you and then have to miss you when you left again. ”
Tears press hot behind my eyes. I blink them back because I want to see him clearly when this lands.
“The baby is yours,” I say simply. “You’re the father.”
For a long second, he doesn’t move. No sound but the soft hum of my fridge and the whisper of traffic five floors down.
His thumb shifts, barely, over the back of my hand.
The smallest stroke. The baby kicks again, firm and insistent, like they want in on the conversation.
On instinct, I lift our linked hands and press them against the round of my belly.
“Hi,” I whisper, to both of them, to the universe, to the terrifying relief of truth. “This is Daddy.”
Lucas’s jaw works once. Twice. His eyes are steady on mine, stormy and unreadable and suddenly so full I can’t breathe around it.
He’s silent.
And every possible future crowds the room, waiting for the next word.