Grace’s POV
Ten weeks pregnant, and Saturday morning arrives with Ryan's gentle knock on the bedroom door—our bedroom door, the one I've been forcing myself to sleep behind more often lately.
He enters carrying a tray with the precision of a man who's perfected this routine: scrambled eggs cooked exactly how I like them, wheat toast, orange juice and a prenatal vitamin placed like a tiny centerpiece.
He's been doing this every Saturday since finding out about the baby, turning my pregnancy into something to celebrate rather than the complicated tragedy it actually is.
"You're spoiling me," I say, guilt threading through my voice like poison.
I don't deserve this care from him, not when I spend every breakfast wishing it was Cole bringing me food, Cole asking how I'm feeling, Cole's hand on my stomach.
"You deserve to be spoiled." Ryan sits beside me on the bed, his hand finding my stomach with the possessive tenderness he's developed lately. "Both of you do. You're carrying our miracle."
Our miracle. The words scrape against my conscience because this baby isn't ours, isn't a miracle, isn't anything but the product of an arrangement that's spiraled beyond anyone's control.
But Ryan doesn't see it that way. For him, this pregnancy is redemption, proof that our unconventional solution worked, that we've all gotten what we needed.
"I've been thinking," he continues, his eyes bright with enthusiasm I haven't seen since before the accident. "We should start the nursery. Ten weeks is the perfect time to begin planning. I drew up some blueprints."
He pulls out actual architectural drawings from his bedside drawer, pages he must have worked on while I was sleeping beside him, oblivious to his dreams taking shape on paper.
The sketches are detailed and precise—crib placement for optimal morning light, changing table within easy reach, a rocking chair positioned by the window.
Color swatches in soft yellows and greens are paper-clipped to the corner, each one labeled with paint codes and finish options.
"You drew all this?" My voice comes out strangled as I trace the careful lines with my finger.
"I've had trouble sleeping lately. Excited energy, the therapist calls it."
He grins, looking more like the old Ryan than he has in months—the planner, the provider, the man who knew exactly where his life was heading.
"Dr. Morrison says it's a sign that I'm integrating the trauma, moving from survival to growth."
"It's beautiful," I whisper, and my eyes burn with tears that he'll interpret as hormonal when they're really grief for what these plans represent.
"I want everything perfect for our family." He kisses my temple with genuine affection that makes me want to scream. "I feel like myself again, Grace. Like I can be the husband and father you both deserve."
"Ryan, you don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not proving, I'm becoming."
He takes my hand, squeezes it with determination.
"This arrangement, as unconventional as it is, saved me. Saved us. And now we have this gift, this baby, and I'm going to be the best father possible. Biology doesn't matter. Love does."
The earnestness in his voice, the pure hope radiating from him, makes me feel like the worst person alive.
He's healing, growing, becoming whole again, and I'm sitting here counting the minutes until I can escape to the garage where Cole is probably destroying his hands on the punching bag again.
"I need some air," I manage after choking down enough breakfast to satisfy him. "The morning sickness..."
"Of course. Take your time. I'll clean up here."
I find Cole exactly where I expected—in the garage, his fists connecting with the heavy bag in a rhythm that speaks of barely controlled rage. His knuckles are already bloody, leaving red smears on the canvas with each impact.
He doesn't acknowledge my presence, just keeps punching with mechanical precision, like he's trying to beat something out of himself or maybe into submission.
"The twelve-week appointment is Thursday," he says without looking at me, his voice flat between punches. "First ultrasound. First real look at our baby. I want to be there."
"You know you can't."
"Can't what?"
He spins toward me, and his eyes are wild with exhaustion and pain. "Can't see my child for the first time? Can't hear the heartbeat I helped create? Can't be present for a single fucking milestone in my own kid's life?"
"Cole, please…"
"Ryan already told Derek he's taking the whole day off work."
His laugh is bitter, broken. "Has it all planned out. Going to record everything on his phone, make copies for the baby book he's already started. Derek said he's never seen Ryan so excited about anything."
My stomach twists violently, and not from morning sickness. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I've been thinking about my dad."
Cole's voice drops to something hollow, empty.
"Never met him. Mom said he wasn't interested in being a father, that he had his own life to live. I spent my whole childhood hating him for abandoning us, swore I'd never be that guy who walks away from his kid."
"You're not."
"Aren't I?" He looks at me with eyes that have given up fighting. "My kid will grow up calling another man Dad. I'll be Uncle Cole at best, the fun family friend who lives in the guest room and babysits sometimes.”
Cole lets out a chuckle, but it's completely devoid of humor.
“Ryan will teach them to ride a bike, help with homework, walk them down the aisle someday. And I'll watch from the sidelines, pretending I'm just invested because we're all such good friends."
"Don't say that. Please don't say that."
"Why not? It's true. I accepted being your secret. I accepted sharing you, sneaking around, pretending this arrangement works."
He pulls off the boxing gloves, revealing knuckles scraped raw and bleeding.
"But being completely erased as this baby's father? Watching Ryan pick names, plan the nursery in those perfect fucking colors, tell everyone about 'his' miracle child while I stand there smiling like it doesn't rip me apart?"
I see something breaking in his eyes—not the anger that's been sustaining him, but something worse. Resignation. Defeat. The moment when fighting becomes pointless because the war is already lost.
"At least my father had the decency to leave completely," he says quietly. "He didn't hang around torturing himself, watching another man raise his kid. Maybe he was the smart one."
"Maybe I should leave," he continues, each word carefully measured.
"Make it easier for everyone. You and Ryan can raise the child without the complication of me. Tell them whatever story makes you comfortable. I'll send money if you need it, but I'll stay away. Clean break."
"No." The word tears from my throat with physical force. "Please, God, no. Don't leave us."
"Us?" Cole's smile is the saddest thing I've ever seen. “There is no 'us,' Grace. There never really was.”
"It's real to me," I whisper, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. “You’re not left behind, Cole.”
"There's you and Ryan, married and planning your nursery. And there's me, the fool who fell in love with someone who was never really available. The 'us' you're talking about exists only in stolen moments. It's not real. It never was."