She didn’t turn toward the couch. Instead, she walked past it, down the short hallway, the bags rustling softly against her leg. Her feet seed to know where they were going before her brain caught up. She stopped at the second door on the left and nudged it open with her shoulder.
The nursery light was off, but the little nightlight plugged into the far wall glowed soft and amber, washing the room in a low, steady warmth. The half finished mural, stars, a crooked moon, and the outline of a rocket Victor had promised to "fix later," lood faintly over the crib. Boxes were stacked along one wall, an open pack of diapers perched on top like a flag claiming new territory.
She stepped inside and set the bags down on the rug beside the crib, fingers lingering on the handles for a second longer than necessary. It hit her then, sharp and disorienting, that she had just kissed a man who was not supposed to fit in this version of her life and then walked him straight into the room built for the life that ca after him.
A heartbeat later he followed. Zane stopped in the doorway first, one hand braced on the fra as if crossing it without permission would be so kind of trespass. His gaze swept over the crib, the boxes, the half painted wall, taking in every unfinished piece. For a mont he looked like soone standing on the edge of a planet he had only ever seen on a screen.
That pulled him over the threshold. He crossed the space slowly and lowered himself to the rug opposite the bags, close enough to help, far enough that she could pretend the distance ant sothing.
The mont his knees touched the rug, sothing in him shifted. The crib, the diapers, the half painted wall, none of it had felt fully real until now. Standing in the doorway was one thing. Sitting inside the room where her future lived was another entirely. Her pregnancy was not an abstract tiline anymore. It was shelves waiting to be filled, a crib waiting for breath, a room waiting for a child he had no right to claim.
The ache hit him low and sharp. God, how badly he wanted to be part of this. To assemble the crib. To paint the wall. To be there at three in the morning with a bottle or a hand on her back. To see the child, her child, grow into a world he could finally protect instead of destroy.
But every heartbeat reminded him why he could not want that. She was married. Living a life he was not supposed to touch. The boundary she pretended existed between them felt like barbed wire. And still he wanted to reach for her anyway.
He forced his hands to stay on his knees, fingers curling into the worn fibers of the rug, grounding himself before his longing made a fool of him.
They stayed on the floor for a mont, facing each other with the bags between them like so fragile treaty neither of them knew how to read. Willow reached for the closest gift, tugging the tissue paper aside with careful fingers. Zane watched the tremor in her hands, the way she paused before lifting anything out, as if touching the contents might change sothing she was not ready to face.
The first item was a tiny knitted hat, cream colored, with a floppy little knot at the top. Soft. Innocent. Weightless.
Her breath caught.
Zane forced himself to swallow, swallowing again when it did not go down.
"That one... I didn’t know the size," he murmured. "I guessed. Badly, probably."
Willow smoothed her thumb over the stitch pattern. "It’s perfect."
His heart lurched.
He wished she had not said that.
He wished she had said it louder.
He wished she had said it softer.
He wished he could be the one to watch their baby wear it.
But it was not his.
It was not supposed to be his.
This was not his life.
She reached into the next bag, pulling out a soft pink blanket embroidered with tiny moons. Her breath hitched again, and Zane felt sothing cave inside him.
He had stood in the store aisle for twenty minutes holding that exact blanket, unable to put it down. Knowing he had no right to buy it. Knowing it was not his place. Knowing she was not his to shop for anymore. And he bought it anyway because the idea of her daughter wearing sothing he chose made his ribs ache in a way he did not have words for.
When she lifted it to her face and inhaled lightly, like she needed the softness to steady her, Zane had to look away.
Because the truth was suffocating.
He wanted that.
He wanted her.
He wanted the life that lived in this room.
He wanted the lullabies she had not chosen yet.
He wanted the late night feedings she was terrified of.
He wanted the laughing, the screaming, the chaos, the hope.
He wanted to build the damn rocket on the wall.
He wanted all of it.
And it was not his.
Willow reached deeper this ti, pulling out the smallest onesie he had ever seen, pale lavender with tiny embroidered stars across the chest. She held it carefully, like it might collapse if she breathed too hard.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"This... you picked this out?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"For the baby?"
"For the baby," he said, quiet, reverent, devastated.
She pressed the fabric against her stomach. Sothing brittle flickered through her expression, wonder mixed with grief. She blinked, and her lashes glistened.
He could not breathe.
"Zane..." she whispered, but it broke halfway through his na, cracking just enough to let sothing slip out she was not ready to voice.
He reached for another bag because he needed to do sothing with his hands before he did sothing with his heart. He pulled out the moon embossed journal, white leather, gold edges, soft enough to feel like a secret kept close.
"I thought..." His throat tightened. "I thought you might want to write things down. For her. Or for you."
Her hand flew to her mouth, her shoulders crumpling inward like the weight of the gift was too much.
Zane froze, terrified he had pushed too far.
But Willow shook her head imdiately. "No. No, it’s beautiful. It’s... it’s so you."
The words hit him dead center.
So you.
Like she rembered him.
Like she still saw him.
Like he was real.
She placed the journal aside gently, then surprised them both by reaching for one more bag. This one was lighter, rattling faintly when she lifted it. She hesitated, breath trembling, then reached inside.
Her fingers closed around sothing cool. tal. Familiar.
She pulled it out.
A delicate silver bracelet, tiny enough for a newborn.
Willow inhaled sharply, eyes widening. "Zane..."
He went very still.
She held the bracelet between them, moon charm, star charm, and one tiny engraved circle in the center.
It read: You are loved.
Her entire face broke.
Zane’s entire chest broke with it.
"That wasn’t from a store," he said quietly. "I had it made. I just... I thought every baby should have sothing that says that."
Willow pressed the bracelet to her chest, right over her heart. Tears finally spilled, silent and steady.
She was not crying because the gift was sweet.
She was crying because the man who was supposed to be her past had walked into her future without even knowing he belonged there.
For a long mont they sat there, surrounded by gifts ant for a child he had no claim to, and breathed the sa painful truth.
He wanted this.
He wanted all of this.
She wiped at her cheeks, shaky, and whispered, "Can you... help sit?"
He stood imdiately, hands gentle on her forearms as he guided her to her feet. She moved slowly toward the rocking chair, the one Victor had assembled two weeks ago with a grim look that suggested the manual had personally offended him.
Willow eased into it with a soft exhale, her hand automatically bracing her stomach.
The sight of her there, rounded belly, tired eyes, cradled in warm light, hit Zane so hard his legs nearly buckled.
This was motherhood.
This was softness.
This was love made flesh.
And he was not the one standing beside her.
He was not the one who had earned this room.
He was not the one she went ho to.
Not anymore.
She rocked once, the chair creaking quietly in the dim glow.
And that was the mont he broke.
He stepped closer, not touching, not crowding, just close enough that his voice would reach her without shaking the walls.
"Willow," he said softly.
She lifted her eyes.
Raw. Open. Hurting. Hopeful.
He drew a breath that felt like a confession.
"I want this life."
Her lips parted but nothing ca out.
"I want you," he continued, voice rough, steady, terrified. "I know what I said. I know I promised I wouldn’t make trouble. I ant it. I ant every word."
He shook his head, jaw tight with everything he had held back.
"But watching you sit here... knowing what I threw away... knowing what you’ve been going through alone..." His voice broke. "I can’t pretend anymore. Not in this room. Not with you looking at like that."
She gripped the armrests of the rocking chair, her knuckles whitening under the strain of her grip as the weight of his words settled heavily in the small room. The soft creak of the chair beneath her stopped as she froze, her entire body suddenly rigid. The nightlight cast a warm amber glow across her face, illuminating the shock spreading through her expression while her breath caught sowhere deep in her chest.
"Zane..."
He stepped closer, careful, asured, still refusing to touch her because he knew that if he closed the distance fully he would lose whatever fragile control he still had left. The space between them felt charged with everything they had buried for seven long months, every unsaid apology, every swallowed confession pressing against the silence.
"Leave him," he whispered quietly. "Leave Victor."
Her breath tore out of her chest at the words, sharp and involuntary, as though the air had been ripped from her lungs without warning. The sound echoed faintly against the nursery walls before dissolving into the thick quiet between them. Zane swallowed hard, the movent tight and visible in his throat as he forced himself to finish what he had already begun.
"Have ."
The room fell completely silent around them. The small nightlight continued to glow softly in the corner, casting gentle light over the crib waiting nearby and the bracelet now resting against Willow’s wrist. The silver charm caught the glow and flickered faintly with every slight movent of her breathing. Tears that had spilled only monts earlier were still drying slowly against her cheeks.
Willow stared at him as if the ground beneath her had suddenly shifted, her mind struggling to find balance in a world that had tilted without warning.
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