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The simple statement, offered without elaborate explanation, strikes me with unexpected force. Roman rarely speaks of his mother, the wound of her loss still evident beneath his controlled exterior. That he would consider honoring her this way reveals more about his feelings toward this baby than any grand declaration could.
"Eleanor," I repeat softly. "It's beautiful."
"You don't have to decide now," he says quickly. "It was just a thought."
"And for a boy?" I press gently.
A small smile tugs at his lips. "James. After my grandfather. The one who taught me to cook."
"Eleanor or James," I say, trying the names on for size. "I like them. They feel... real."
"They are real," Roman says quietly, his hand finding mine in the darkness of the backseat. "All of this is real, Cassie."
His fingers lace through mine, warm and steady and unexpectedly sure. I study his profile in the passing streetlights—the sharp jaw, the thoughtful eyes, the mouth that can command boardrooms with a look. This man who was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, then a complicated relationship, now the father of my child.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, catching me watching him.
"That I never saw this coming," I answer honestly. "Any of it. You. Us. Definitely not a baby."
"Regrets?" The question is careful, controlled, but I can hear the vulnerability beneath it.
"No," I say, surprising myself with the certainty I feel. "No regrets. Just... adjustment. This isn't the path I planned."
"The best things rarely are." He squeezes my hand gently. "At least, that's what I'm learning."
As the car pulls up to my building, Roman helps me out with unnecessary but touching care. In the lobby, away from publiceyes, he pulls me into his arms, pressing a kiss to my forehead that feels like a benediction.
"Stay with me tonight?" I ask impulsively. "I don't want to be alone."
His answer is immediate, requiring no consideration. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
Later, lying in bed with his arm draped protectively over me, his breathing deep and even in sleep, I place my hand over my stomach and try to imagine the tiny life growing there. A little person who will have my eyes, perhaps, or Roman's determined jaw. Someone who will call us Mom and Dad, who will look to us for guidance and protection and love.
"Hello, little one," I whisper in the darkness. "We're figuring this out as we go. Be patient with us."
Roman stirs, his arm tightening around me as if even in sleep he's determined to keep us safe.
And for the first time since seeing that pink plus sign, I feel something shift inside me—fear giving way to something stronger, something deeper.
This isn't the life I planned.
But maybe, just maybe, it's the life I was meant to find.
21
ROMAN
PRIVATE FEARS, PUBLIC FACES
The blue light from my tablet casts an eerie glow across the bedroom at 3:17 AM. Cassie sleeps peacefully beside me, one hand curled protectively over her still-flat stomach even in sleep.
I've been awake for hours, falling down an obsessive rabbit hole of pregnancy research that started with "first trimester symptoms" and has somehow led me to "attachment parenting versus cry-it-out methods" — a debate that won't be relevant for at least a year.
I tab through bookmarked pages: "The Expectant Father," "What to Expect When You're Expecting," "Pregnancy for Dummies."
The sheer volume of information is both comforting and overwhelming. I've always believed that knowledge is power, that any problem can be solved with sufficient research and preparation.
But the more I read, the more I realize how spectacularly unprepared I am for this.