“I was trying to keep him contained,” I continued, ignoring her.
“So your solution was—closet.”
“There was a door,” I snapped.
“Ah, yes,” she nodded. “Logical.”
Dottie’s tail thumped once against the cushion.
“It was supposed to be a minute,” I added, more quietly now. “Two at most.”
Lucy leaned forward slightly, interest sharpening. “And?”
I looked down at my hands, the memory sliding in whether I wanted it to or not—the heat, the closeness, the shift that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with something I hadn’t planned for.
Hadn’t controlled.
Hadn’t stopped.
Lucy watched me clock it in real time.
“Oh my God,” she said softly. “Youlove him.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down my face before dropping it again. “I do not love Alois Müller.”
“That’s interesting.”
“It’s not interesting,” I shot back. “It’s accurate.”
“Mm.” Her head tilted slightly, eyes still on me. “It’s definitely something.”
I pressed my lips together.
The fire cracked softly behind us, the sound filling the space just enough to stretch the silence without breaking it.
Lucy leaned back into the couch, one leg folding under her as she reached down absentmindedly, her fingers finding Dottie without looking. The dog leaned into the touch instantly, warm and steady, completely at ease in a room that felt anything but.
“And now,” Lucy added, her voice going lighter again—but her eyes staying sharp, locked on mine, “we’re here.”
I didn’t like the way she said that.
Didn’t like how much weight it carried without needing to explain itself.
“Here,” she repeated, softer this time, almost like she was clarifying it for me. “On my couch. In January. With you looking like you just got hit by a bus you saw coming… and still stepped in front of.”
I didn’t respond.
Because that was—not wrong.
“And you’re pregnant,” she finished, the words landing clean and deliberate, no cushioning, no hesitation. “With his coat closet baby.”
I swallowed, my throat tightening slightly as the weight of the last twenty-four hours pushed back in, harder this time, less contained, less willing to stay where I put it.
“The worst of it,” I sighed, the humor gone completely now, stripped clean, “I didn’t even know.”