Before I can start, I grab my wireless earbuds, slipping them on, and call Sanford.

“This better be good, or I swear I’m going to kill you,” he answers, voice already impatient.

“Morning, sunshine,” I laugh.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I need the concierge.”

There’s a pause. Then, “For what?”

“Clothes, shoes, whatever pregnant women need,” I say, shoving bread into the toaster. “And get me a list of good OBs nearby. I know we have Simone, but I want the best care for Blythe. I don’t care how much they cost—just make sure they’re the best.”

Another pause. “You playing house now?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer. “Just do it.”

“Simone is on the list of trusted doctors, Timberbridge,” he says with a warning voice. “I don’t care if you’re trying to woo this woman, but you’re not fucking breaking protocol. You get me?”

This isn’t a mission, and technically, I’m not working for him. I have to think about Blythe and the baby. “What if⁠—”

“She’ll be fine. Simone is one of the best,” he cuts me off. “If not, she wouldn’t be on the roster.”

“Would you trust Aerin’s care to her?” I have to bring up one of his significant others. If she were pregnant, what would he do?

“Yes, if this would keep her out of danger, I would. Now, if you prefer, I could move the two of you to Luna Harbor⁠—”

“No,” I cut him. “If we do, we’ll lose the trail, and this nightmare will never end.”

Sanford mutters something under his breath. “Glad we have an understanding. Anything else?”

“That’s it.” I hang up before I change my mind and move to Antarctica with Blythe.

By the time the toast pops up, I’ve got eggs in the pan, avocado sliced. I work on autopilot. Something about cooking has always helped clear my mind—maybe because it’s one of the few things in my life that follows a predictable pattern.

When everything’s ready, I plate the food, grab a bottle of water, and head to the bedroom to wake her up.

But when I push open the bedroom door, I pause.

She’s up, already showered and tidying the room.

My bed is made, the few things I’d left out neatly stacked on the dresser. She moves slowly, her hair damp, but there’s something about it that pulls at something deep in my gut.

And then I realize what she’s wearing.

A clean shirt, mine, along with a pair of shorts—also mine.

The fabric hangs off her frame, drowning her in soft folds, but fuck if I don’t like it.

She turns when she hears me, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “You’re awake.”

I lift the plate. “And I made breakfast.”