Chapter 31 #2
Check. Probably too much, considering she shot me that look when I answered the doctor’s question before she did. I can still feel that look, half annoyed, half grateful, like she didn’t want to need me and didn’t know what to do with the fact that she did.
Encourage rest. Offer to take on daily tasks.
Easy. The tricky part is convincing Vesper that letting me help doesn’t mean she’s weak.
Validate her feelings. Listen without judgment. Remind her she is capable, even when she has doubts.
I exhale and drag a hand down my face. Somehow, that last part feels like a trap.
Not because I don’t want to do it. But because Vesper has spent her whole life proving she doesn’t need anyone. She wears independence like armor. If I push too hard, she’ll bolt just to prove she can.
And I’m . . . I’m selfish enough to want her not to.
Monty’s voice cuts in, quiet and rough. “Why do you keep looking at her?”
I glance up.
He’s watching me like he’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or an ally.
I keep my tone light. “I thought you didn’t care about my books.”
“I don’t,” he says flatly. “I care about her.”
I swallow. “So do I.”
Monty’s jaw flexes. “You stare like you’re waiting for her to disappear.”
Maybe I am.
Because Vesper has always been a runner. Not away from us exactly, but away from anything that feels too permanent. I shift in my chair, keeping my voice low so I don’t wake her. “I’m not staring. I’m . . . watching.”
“For what?”
I glance at her again. At the ultrasound photos peeking out from her loose grip, bent at the corners.
“For the moment she wakes up and realizes we’re still around and this is happening,” I admit. “And tries to act like she’s fine.”
Monty’s gaze stays on Vesper. Something in his face tightens. “She won’t be fine.”
“No,” I agree softly. “She’ll be brave. Which isn’t the same thing.”
Silence stretches between us, full of all the things we’ve never handled well: feelings, loyalty, history.
Monty breaks it first, voice low. “You want this.”
It’s not a question.
I glance at him. “Don’t start.”
He gives a humorless huff. “I’m not. I’m stating a fact.”
“I made myself clear earlier,” I whisper. “I want this.”
Monty’s eyes narrow. “You want her.”
“Yes.” My chest aches. “And I want the baby safe. I want her to have a home. I want her to stop thinking she has to do everything alone just because she learned how—but also, I don’t want her to have to choose.”
Monty’s mouth tightens like he hates that answer. Like he hates the idea of waiting. Like he’d rather lock every door and call it protection.
I lean back, keeping my voice gentle, because this isn’t about winning. “What do you want, big guy?”
He looks at me like the question is an insult.
Then his eyes slide to Vesper again, and his voice comes out rawer than I expect. “I want to be in it.”
The words hang there. But I don’t know how to feel when he doesn’t say that he doesn’t want me involved . . . or that he wants me.
The thing is, I fucking want everything. I want Vesper in my bed and laughing in my kitchen and leaning into me like she trusts I won’t leave. I want her to stop flinching when life offers her something good. I want to be the man she reaches for first.
And I want Monty, too, if I’m being honest in the way that makes me feel too exposed.
I want the three of us to stop circling each other like we’re still teenagers and terrified that loving each other could ruin our lives.
Monty’s voice drops. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I whisper.
“Don’t look at her like she’s yours alone,” he says, quiet and dangerous.
My throat goes dry. I glance at him. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
He holds my gaze. “It’s what you want.”
I swallow hard and force my words. “I want her to be loved—by us. You and me.”
Monty’s eyes don’t soften, but something shifts. “She is.”
“But like I said, I want this to be us. Vesper, you, and me, Alberto,” I continue. “Us. The three as we once believed it could work. You have to stop acting like being in this means you lose control.”
His jaw works. “Control is how I survive.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “And she’s going to need more than survival. She’s going to need the two of us—and you know what, fucker, I need you too. I’m done pretending that you didn’t fucking hurt me.”
The silence that follows is thick with tension that has nothing to do with him trying to figure out how to get out. More like I hit hard where it hurts and I hope it stings.
Vesper stirs then, a soft sound in her sleep, and both of us go still. Monty’s gaze snaps to her face, mine does too, like we’re the same kind of idiot in different packaging.
She doesn’t wake. She just shifts, pulling the throw blanket higher, curling tighter into the couch like she’s cold.
Monty stands abruptly and crosses the room. He doesn’t hesitate. He kneels by the couch and tucks the blanket around her with careful hands—gentle, precise, like he’s handling something precious.
Vesper’s mouth moves like she’s about to complain even in her sleep.
Monty leans closer and murmurs, so quiet I barely hear it, “Sleep, Ves.”
He looks over at me, eyes hard again like he remembers I’m there.
“We shouldn’t be discussing that,” he snaps while still whispering. “You’re going to wake her up.”
“As if I’d be that stupid,” I whisper back.
He holds my gaze for another beat—too long, too loaded—then returns his attention to Vesper, staying there by the couch like a guard.
And I sit with my e-reader open to a chapter on emotional support, staring at the words like they’re written in another language.
Because I know what I want.
I know what Vesper deserves.
I just don’t know if Monty and I can stop hurting each other long enough to give it to her.
Or if we’re going to blow this up the way we always do—right when it starts to feel like it could last forever.