Page 127 of Unbroken

It should feel wrong. But it doesn’t.

Instead, I lift one brow, shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, and smile. “Oh. Right,” I say smoothly, already pivoting. “It’s his night.”

Of course he came. Responsible, on top of things, competent as fuck. AndI love him. I love him so damn much. I see him with Luka, and I just melt into a puddle, thinkingthis man will be the father of my baby.I couldn’t ask for any better.

I drive home without music. The silence isn’t heavy—just full.

Sometimes, I still expect ghosts in the corner. But this house—ourhouse—is clean. Safe. No bloodstains on the floor.No memory of the night Mariah died. No shadows that reek of old grief.

When I open the front door, the smell of something warm and garlicky curls around me. The nausea has passed, and now I’m ravenous. Eating for two, after all.

Luka gives me a sleepy hug with a yawn before he disappears down the hall—he needs some downtime before early bed. My heart pinches.

But what stops me is the rest of it.

The table.

Lit candles. Not the scented kind either—the real, tall ones, dripping wax into elegant little dishes. The good plates. Actual napkins. Cloth ones, like you’d find in a restaurant.

The house is pristine. The cleaning crew must’ve come today. Everything is gleaming: floors buffed, windows smudge-free, the scent of citrus cleaner in the air. Vadka’s motorcycle jacket is on the hook. His boots are lined up neatly at the door.

I step further in and freeze.

Becauseheis in the kitchen.

Wearing a dark long-sleeve tee. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair wet from a recent shower, his jaw freshly shaved. He turns toward me with that heavy-lidded look of quiet approval that somehow still manages to make me feel bare.

There are plates on the table. One is covered in grilled salmon and wild rice pilaf, the other piled with things Ivaguely recognize from the pregnancy app I downloaded two weeks ago and deleted three days later.

He catches me looking.

“I googled,” he says simply, nodding at the food.

My mouth twitches. “I figured.”

I drop my bag by the bench, shrug out of my jacket, and exhale. For once, I don’t have to be anywhere. Don’t have to watch my back. Don’t have to handle everything alone.

He hands me a water glass. “Hydration’s important.”

I squint at him. “Are you… nesting?”

“No. I’m protecting my baby.” He grins.

My brows lift, and I don’t ask him which of us he means. “Yourbaby?”

He’s already pulling out my chair. “Behave yourself, you little brat.”

I laugh, but it’s softer now. My fingers brush the side of the water glass. There’s something in my chest—warm, expanding.

And when he sits beside me instead of across from me, when his thigh presses against mine like it’s meant to, that warmth spreads like fire licking up dry wood.

We eat in silence for a while, save for the occasional clink of silverware. Outside, the streetlights hum to life. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks.

And then—quietly, reverently—he reaches across and rests his hand on my belly.

I freeze. My throat is tight.

His palm is broad, warm, grounding. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. Just watches his own hand cup over my rounded belly.