HARPER
The sun dips low over the vineyard, spilling honeyed light across endless rows of vines that ripple like silk in the summer breeze.
I stand on the wide stone terrace of Asher’s chateau, barefoot, the warm flagstones beneath my feet still holding the day’s heat.
My fingers curl around the stem of a wineglass, the liquid inside untouched—deep crimson, just like the Syrah fermenting in the cellars below—but I don’t miss it.
Not when the air is so thick with scent and sound and love that it feels like drinking in light itself.
Below me, the yard is alive with motion.
Killian moves slowly through the grass, one hand firmly supporting Gabriel’s wobbling weight as the baby takes unsteady steps, his tiny fingers gripping his father’s thumb.
Killian doesn’t rush him. He never does.
His voice is low, constant, murmuring words I can’t make out but feel in my ribs like a steady pulse.
The man who once commanded boardrooms with a glance now kneels in the dirt to match his son’s pace, dusting off grass stains from little knees with the same care he’d wipe smudges from a crystal decanter.
It’s a tenderness that still catches me sometimes, steals my breath—not because I don’t expect it, but because I now realize he was always capable of it.
Just never met someone worth uncovering it for.
In the kitchen behind me, the clatter of pans and the soft hiss of olive oil meeting hot iron carry through the open French doors.
Asher’s silhouette moves like a dancer between stove and counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour and flecks of rosemary.
He hums under his breath, something old and tuneless, the way he always does when he’s relaxed.
The scent of rendered garlic, seared lamb, and roasted tomatoes drifts out on the evening air, wrapping around us like a promise.
He doesn’t need to be told what we want—he already knows. Always has.
And then there’s Maddox.
He’s sprawled in the grass beside Gabriel, one hand propped behind his head like he’s on a beach somewhere tropical instead of a meticulously landscaped garden in northern California.
He’s teaching the baby how to “punch” by wiggling his fingers in the air just out of reach, cooing in a low, exaggerated growl.
“C’mon, Gabe. Right hook. C’mon, kid. You’re a fighter. You’ve got my blood in you.”
Sophia throws a handful of grapes at him from across the table. “Teach my brother how to throw elbows before he can walk? I can’t take him anywhere with you.”
Maddox grins, catching one of the grapes mid-air and popping it into his mouth. “He’s gonna need reflexes. He’s got three overprotective dads and a mother who sneaks kale into scrambled eggs. He’s under siege.”
Enzo leans back in his chair, arms crossed, laughing. “You’re the siege, Maddox. You’re the wild card.”
“I’m the fun,” he counters, winking. “The necessary chaos.”
Killian gives a low, put-upon sigh as he lifts Gabriel into his arms—small hands immediately reaching to grab at his watch, tugging on the heavy silver links. “If by chaos you mean instructing an infant in amateur boxing, then yes. You’re essential.”
But the corner of his mouth twitches, and he shifts the baby so Gabriel can drum his palms against his chest, a sound like small rain on tin.
I watch them all—the easy rhythm of teasing and touch, the way laughter spills between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and I feel the quiet swell of something so full inside me that it burns at the edges of my vision.
I didn’t lose my life when New York fell apart.
I just didn’t know I was supposed to find this instead: a house that breathes, a table that never stops filling, a love that doesn’t divide itself but multiplies.
The baby kicks—just a small flutter, low and deep, like a secret waking up.
I press a hand to my belly and smile.
Dinner is served on the long outdoor table, draped in ivory linen, candlelight flickering against cut crystal and hand-thrown pottery.
Asher brings out platters of lamb braised in red wine and thyme, roasted vegetables glazed in honey and balsamic, a wheel of warm goat cheese crowned with figs.
There’s bread still crackling from the oven, and a salad so fresh it tastes like dew.
No one speaks for the first few minutes—not because we’re reverent, but because we’re starving, and Asher’s food has always been its own kind of sacrament.
Sophia leans back, one hand splayed gently over her own rounded stomach. “I swear, if I get any bigger, Enzo’s gonna have to carry me in through the door.”
Enzo barks out a laugh. “You’re glowing. Doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”
Maddox eyes her plate. “You’re eating for three now, aren’t you?”
“I’m eating for me,” she says, stealing a bite of his roasted carrots. “And the future Thorne heir who currently has my bladder as a trampoline.”
Asher passes Gabriel a small, soft piece of bread, which the baby promptly smears into his hair. “He’s good with his hands. Must be from Maddox.”
Maddox flings an olive at him. “Blasphemy. That’s precision. That’s artistry.”
Killian watches the exchange, arms folded, expression cool, but when Gabriel giggles—a high, breathless sound that spills into the air like wind chimes—his entire face shifts, softens, rearranges itself into something unguarded.
The conversation flows like the wine we aren’t drinking—warm, unstudied, rich with years of knowing.
Nothing needs to be explained. Jokes land because they’re built on shared history.
Silences don’t need filling. We’ve all heard each other at their worst and their weakest. Now, the quiet between us hums with comfort, not tension.
I stay mostly silent, sipping sparkling water, one hand resting on my napkin-covered knee, the other absentmindedly tracing circles on my stomach. My news sits beneath my skin like a live wire, quiet for now, but thrumming with its own pulse.
I didn’t mean to keep it secret this long. I only found out this morning, alone in the bathroom while the sun painted gold stripes across the marble floor. The second line appeared slowly, as if it knew it didn’t need to rush. As if it had all the time in the world.
I hadn’t planned on telling them tonight. I wanted to wait. To savor the moment a little longer, just for me.
But then Gabriel starts fussing, tiny fists waving, his voice rising into a wail that cuts through the laughter like a siren.
Asher doesn’t hesitate. He lifts the baby into his arms, settling him against his chest, one hand supporting his head, fingers curled around the soft nape of his neck. “There, there,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the downy hair. “Too much noise, little man?”
The shift is immediate. The room adjusts. Sophia leans back, Enzo fills another glass of water, even Maddox quiets, watching as Asher rocks the baby in slow, unhurried circles.
That’s when I start to stand.
Just to clear my plate. Just to fetch more water. Something small.
But the smell of the lamb—rich, fatty, intoxicating—rises up suddenly, sharply, and my stomach turns.
I freeze, palm pressing to the table’s edge, breath catching.
Maddox is beside me in an instant, one hand at my elbow, steadying me before I sway. “You alright, sweetheart?”
I nod automatically. “Yeah, I guess—”
Another wave rolls through me, brief but fierce, and I shut my eyes, waiting. My fingers tighten on the table. The scent fades. The air cools.
Then I open my eyes.
And I see them—all of them—watching me. Not with alarm, but with that quiet, practiced concern they’ve perfected over months of late-night feedings and flu seasons and moments just like this.
Killian’s gaze is sharp. Asher’s is soft. Sophia’s is knowing.
But Maddox—he’s still holding my arm, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of my sleeve. His face is close, his voice low.
I look at him.
And something unspools inside me, warm and certain.
My lips curve. Slow. Inevitable.
“Yeah,” I say softly, the words slipping out like a secret finally free. “I guess your baby is a picky eater.”