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The silence between us was comfortable, a respite from the chaos that was life outside the window. The hum of the engine was filled with unspoken words and feelings left hanging in the air. I let my hand fall away from his arm, settling it back into my lap where my fingers resumed their habitual fluttering over my bump.
“Your dad will find out you’re pregnant,” he said. “I want to ask him for your hand before he knows.”
“You want to ask my father for my hand in marriage?” I choked out, my heart pounding in my chest. I stared at him, searching his face for any signs of insincerity. But all I found were those clear blue eyes staring back at me, full of resolve.
“Yes,” he said simply, his gaze never wavering from mine. “I want to do this right, Adriana.”
“But…why?” I stammered, blinking rapidly. “You don’t have to marry me just because of the baby.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, shaking his head. “Yeah. I know.”
Chapter Thirty-Two: Tristan
As we pulled up to the house, I could feel a sudden shift in the atmosphere. The place was a grim reminder of the man who had once ruled our lives with an iron fist–my father, Malachy Callahan. It was as if the very air was thick with his presence, his absence. This didn’t feel like home. It hadn’t since my mom died—a little more when my brothers still lived there, but now…...it was just a relic of my past.
A tombstone marking where my childhood was buried.
The house was darker than I remembered, the deep navy paint chipped off the old wood. The grand windows, once conveying warmth and affluence, were now shut tightly, almost as if they were as afraid to let in the world as we were to step out into it. The lawn sprawling before us was trimmed, but it lacked its usual vibrancy. Everything about the place screamed of what used to be.
Seemingly reading my thoughts, Adriana rested her hand on my thigh gently, her touch seeping through the denim of my jeans. The corners of her mouth twitched as if she was holding back her words, deciding whether to break the silence or not.
“You aren’t getting out of showing me your childhood bedroom,” she said. “You can feel sorry for yourself inside.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
I led Adriana inside, up the staircase, pausing briefly at the top to glance down the seemingly endless hallway. My old bedroom waited at the end.
Opening the door felt like stepping into another lifetime. The room was exactly as I'd left it: rowing trophies gathering dust on shelves, Stephen King novels stacked haphazardly on my bedside table, and my old school photos lining one wall. I caught Adriana's glance flickering to a picture of a younger me, my hair a mess of dark blond curls as I posed awkwardly for the camera.
"I never thought you were a bookworm," she said softly, her fingers lightly tracing over the worn books.
“The poetry book I used to carry around didn’t give it away?”
“Honestly, I thought you used it to impress girls.”
I laughed, crossing my arms over my chest. "Well, that was just a bonus," I teased, leaning against the doorframe. I watched as she moved from one item to another, her fingers brushing over the old trophies and worn book spines. Her touch seemed almost reverent, as though she was afraid to disturb the memories that lay dormant within their confines.
“How many girls did you bring here?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Do you really want to know that?”
She paused, her fingers still wrapped around the spine of an old book. A flash of a smile played on her lips, her dark eyes sparkling with mischievous curiosity. "No," she finally admitted with a shake of her head, "I probably don't."
She moved toward the bed next, sitting down on the edge and running her hand over the faded comforter. It was a small bed–the one I'd claimed as mine since boyhood, and it felt strangely surreal knowing Adriana was here now. Every girl I'd shared this bed with before had been a fleeting moment, an adolescent exploration. With Adriana…it was something else entirely. Uncertain, terrifying, yes—but also so much more intense.
She rubbed her temple, closing her eyes tightly. “Ugh. I’ve been having such a hard time sleeping lately.”
“Is that a normal symptom of pregnancy?”
“I have no idea,” she replied.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" I asked, moving closer to her.
She paused for a moment, her lips parting as if she was going to say something, then closed them again. Her gaze flickered to me, an unreadable expression flashing across her face. "Just…hold me," she murmured, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
I didn't hesitate. Closing the distance between us, I sat down beside her on the bed and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into my chest. Her body fit perfectly against mine.
We were silent for a while, the only sounds being our soft breaths and the faint rustling of our clothes as we shifted in our hold. It was a kind of peace that was rare in our lives–no plots or schemes, no danger or treachery. Just two people holding each other, finding comfort in the calm before the storm.
