We don’t celebrate victories in this place with champagne or speeches, and thank god, since I’d rather chew glass than sit through a romantic monologue about “us” while the world still smells faintly of courtrooms and revenge.
What we do have is leftover pizza, a shut laptop, and Ethan moving around the kitchen like a man who’s trying to act normal while his brain is still tracking exits, angles, and threats that aren’t there anymore.
He’s shirtless, which is not helpful for my focus, and he’s holding a plate like it’s a business proposal.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
He turns, one brow lifting, and he doesn’t say anything, but his mouth does that small tilt that means he heard me and filed it under cute nonsense.
“Eat,” he says.
I take the plate, glare at it, then glare at him, and he just watches like my tantrum is part of the meal plan.
“I don’t want to eat,” I say again, then I cave and bite anyway, since my body has been running on adrenaline and spite for months and it’s probably time to stop trying to power a pregnancy with sheer attitude.
He leans a hip against the counter and folds his arms. It would read casual on someone else, but Ethan doesn’t do casual. He does contained.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I swallow, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and keep my voice even though my chest feels too full. “Okay. Here’s the part where we either fix this or we keep circling the same fight until the baby goes to college.”
His eyes narrow in focus. “Go on.”
“I ran,” I say, and I hold up a finger before he can jump in. “I know why I ran, and you know why I ran, and I also know it hurt you, and I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.”
He nods once, slow. He doesn’t interrupt. That matters more than any apology.
“And you,” I continue, voice sharp but not cruel, “have this reflex where you fill space, and you don’t always notice you’re doing it. You show up, you take over, you make plans, you put bodies in corners, and part of me likes it, which is the worst part.”
His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t like it.”
“I like safety,” I correct. “I like competence. I like knowing someone can handle a situation without flailing. What I don’t like is feeling watched, and I don’t like feeling managed, and I don’t like that I have to fight for air in my own life.”
He drags a hand through his hair, and his forearm flexes. I have to blink once to keep my brain from wandering off track.
“I hear you,” he says.
I snort. “That’s not a fix.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a start.”
He pushes off the counter and comes closer, slow enough that I don’t feel crowded, and that’s new. He stops an arm’s length away, then he speaks like he’s choosing each word on purpose, not to win, but to be understood.
“I don’t want to own you,” he says. “I don’t want you small. I don’t want you scared. I want you alive, and I want you near me, and I want to be the place you come back to by choice.”
My throat tightens, and I hate it, since I’m not trying to cry in the kitchen like an afterschool special.
“I didn’t tell you about Gavin,” I admit, voice rough. “I didn’t tell you the full truth, and part of that was shame, and part of that was fear, and part of that was me trying to protect something that didn’t deserve protection, which was my pride.”
His eyes hold mine. “You don’t owe me your past on demand.”
“I didn’t want you looking at me like I was damaged,” I say, then I laugh once, bitter. “Which is hilarious, considering I’m pregnant and you’ve seen me throw up twice from stress and once from prenatal vitamins.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re not damaged.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m altered.”
“Yeah.” He steps a little closer, not rushing. “So am I.”