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Mathias notices. His eyes track the movement before dropping to the glitter-crusted picture frame still in my hand. Then rising to the pale blue silicone pacifier clipped to the collar of my sweater. His gaze lingers there for a heartbeat too long. Something shifts behind his eyes—not quite recognition, not quite judgment. Something more calculating, I think.

“You’re Kamden.” His voice is flat, giving nothing away.

I don’t answer.

Can’t answer.

My fingers are trembling. The phone—Daddy’s messages. I set the frame down carefully on the narrow hallway table, afraid my unsteady hands would drop it, then run to my room.

As I pull up our message thread, the men stand in the doorway, watching me.

Me: Daddy are you almost done?

Send.

I stare at the glowing display, pulse hammering in my throat.

Quillan clears his throat, and I flinch, then glance up at him nervously. “Why don’t we move to that little sitting area I saw?”

I feel like my heart is in my throat.

Mathias looks at me like what was just said wasn’t a question, so I shakily stand up, phone and Rabbit in hand, and follow them out of my room.

Quillan mutters to Mathias, “Don’t want to even imagine what he’d do if he came home and we were in a bedroom with the boy.”

Mathias just inclines his head.

As we get to the sitting room, his eyes sweep over the crayons scattered across the coffee table and the coloring books stacked neatly beside my cup. A single bunny slipper lies half-tucked beneath the table, its ear bent.

Evidence of me everywhere.

Quillan picks up the slipper. He turns it over in his hands, studying it with an odd intensity before his eyes lift to meet mine.

He says nothing as he sets it back down gently, almost reverently.

My phone buzzes.

Daddy: Yeah, baby. On my way soon.

Relief nearly buckles my knees.

Soon.

Daddy is coming.

I clutch Rabbit tighter against my chest.

Quillan glances at my phone screen but stays silent.

Mathias lowers himself into the armchair beside the couch as if claiming territory. The leather creaks softly under his weight.

Quillan takes the couch, sprawling comfortably as though he visits often.

Then both of them look at me, waiting.

I stay rooted in the hallway entrance.

Quillan pats the cushion beside him. “No?”