Chapter Twenty-Five-Andrea
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since the night Remy caught me with a toy between my legs.
That’s also how long it’s been since I let myself believe that maybe I can actually do this.
This marriage. This family. This impossible thing with Remy Falco.
And God help me, the last few weeks have been bliss.
The kind of bliss that makes you scared to breathe too deep in case it shatters like glass.
But now? Well, Remy had to leave this morning on assignment.
I’ll admit, I was positive he was going to put Callie on a plane to Florida to stay with his mother.
That’s what makes sense, right?
A safe option, a tried-and-true fallback while he jetted off to whatever dangerous corner of the world Sigma needed him in.
But instead, he paused in the kitchen, looking at me with those impossibly green eyes, and simply asked if I was okay watching her.
Of course, I said yes.
He’ll only be out of the country for a couple of days, max.
But honestly? I think it would have broken my heart if he’d taken her away from me, even for that long.
Because Callie isn’t just his anymore.
Somewhere between tea parties on the kitchen floor, pink glitter nail polish smeared across both of our hands, and bedtime stories that end with her tucking me in, she’s become mine too.
My little girl.
And it makes my heart swell in ways I didn’t think were possible—because Remy hasn’t just given me his name, or his babies growing inside me, or even his overwhelming, all-consuming presence.
He’s given me her.
A child who trusts me.
Who hugs me tight and calls me “my Andy” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Who crawls into my lap when she’s sleepy and curls her little fingers into my shirt like I’m her safe place.
And now, as I sit here in the quiet of our—yes, our—house, I realize something terrifying.
I’m not just falling for Remy Falco.
I’m falling for everything he’s given me.
The life. The family. The future I’ve always dreamed of.
And God help me, I don’t know how I’ll ever let go.
The house feels too big without him.
Even with Callie humming some nonsense tune as she drags her stuffed unicorn across the floor, there’s a hollow echo in the walls.
Like the absence of Remy is its own presence—loud, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Still, I rally.
“Alright, Miss Thing,” I say, hands on my hips as I follow her into the kitchen.
“What do you want for dinner? And before you say it, no—chocolate cake is not a food group.”
She giggles, hiding her face behind the unicorn.
“Mac and cheese? With chicken bites!”
“Mac and cheese with chicken bites it is,” I declare, and I swear her smile could power the entire block.
Chicken bites is what we call sliced grilled chicken, and lucky for me, Remy always has a couple all ready to go in the fridge. It just requires a little skillful reheating, so they don’t get dry.
Cooking for Callie and me in our kitchen? Well, it feels weirdly grounding.
The simple rhythm of boiling pasta, stirring in cheese, milk, and butter, then slices of grilled chicken, and cutting up some carrot sticks on the side—because God knows I can’t fail my first solo parenting gig by letting her live on mainly carbs alone—makes me feel almost steady.
Like maybe I can do this.
We sit at the kitchen nook, her swinging her little legs while I keep reminding her to take smaller bites so she doesn’t choke.
She ignores me, of course, but when she holds out a forkful for me to try, I almost cry.
Because that’s what moms do, isn’t it? They share.
Later, bath time is chaos. Bubbles everywhere. Water all over my shirt.
Callie shrieks with laughter when I pretend the rubber duck is a monster and chase it around the tub.
By the time I wrestle her into pajamas, my nerves are shot—but in the best way.
“I want two stories, my Andy, please!”
I laugh at how she insists I read her two bedtime stories, one about dragons and the other about princesses.
“Do the voices,” she commands, and like any starstruck mama I obey.
Halfway through the second tale, her head drops against my arm, her breathing evening out, lashes fanning across flushed cheeks.
I stay there for a long time, staring at her. My chest aches. My throat burns.
Because I’m not her mom. Not really.
But in this moment, with her soft little hand curled around my pinky just like she does with Remy, I feel like I could be.
I kiss her forehead, whisper goodnight, and tuck her in before slipping out.
The house is quiet now.
I’m exhausted, but happy. And that realization hits hard.
I am happy.
And the strangest thing?
I miss him even more.