He left.
Cal stood there. Hands in pockets.
I waited.
He didn’t speak.
Finally, I said, “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Another lie.
He walked past me into the bedroom. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t yell. Just… closed it.
Soft click.
I stood in the half-finished nursery alone. Hand on my stomach.
Later that night he climbed into bed beside me. Didn’t speak. Just slid his hand over the bump like it was routine now.
His breathing evened out fast.
Mine didn’t.
I lay awake staring at the ceiling, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest against my back.
His hand stayed on the baby.
But the rest of him felt miles away.
I wondered, quiet, aching, if trying was enough when he still couldn’t look me in the eye and say he wanted this.
Wanted us.
Wanted me.
The baby kicked against his palm.
He didn’t stir.
I closed my eyes.
Hope felt heavier than fear ever had.
Chapter 22
Cal
Rehearsal dragged. The studio in the east wing of the mansion smelled like stale coffee and amp cables...same as always. Holland pounded the drums like he was working out a grudge. Jake tuned his bass endlessly. Kei strummed quiet riffs, head down, focused. Syd lounged on the ratty couch by the soundboard, legs tucked under her, scrolling her phone like she owned the place.
We ran through the new bridge for “Fracture” three times before Holland called a break. I wiped sweat from my forehead, set my guitar down, grabbed a water from the mini-fridge.
Syd looked up. Casual. “You guys sounded tight. That last take was fire.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
She tilted her head. “Kei killed those harmonies. He’s on point lately. Focused.”
