Now, she’s moving around the kitchen like she belongs here. Like this life—our life—is something real. And I keep catching myself thinking about it in we’s and ours and . . . what the fuck is wrong with me?

She’s standing at the counter, brow furrowed, completely focused on whatever complicated dish she’s making—something I don’t even recognize, something that probably has a million steps and will taste way better than the simple meals I throw together. In my defense, they’re from a pregnancy blog I found while researching morning sickness.

Blythe moves like she knows exactly what she’s doing, like cooking is something that settles her, something that makes sense in a way that nothing else does. She’s wearing one of those lounge sets she ordered against her will.

Soft fabric draped over her frame, fitting too well, like it was meant to be on her skin. The shorts show way too much leg, and I shouldn’t be noticing that.

But I do.

Like I have all the times before.

Every day, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend I don’t want to run my hands down those legs, feel her warmth under my palms, and see how she’d react if I closed the space between us.

I need to stop.

I can’t stop.

I made a mistake when we first met.

I should have felt nothing but obligation. Nothing but duty, protection, a sense of responsibility. But that first day—the day she told me she was pregnant, when I realized she had nowhere else to go—something twisted deep in my gut.

I told myself it was anger.

That the burn in my chest had nothing to do with her. That it was only because of the way Winston treated her. I hate men who take advantage of others, men like my father who get a kick out of using their wives and children as punching bags. My father might’ve loved me, but I hated him so much for the way he treated his family. I wish I could say I was the one who killed him, but it was an innocent bystander who didn’t see him cross the street when my father was heavily intoxicated.

The thing is that I couldn’t not notice Blythe. Not when she curled up on my couch, smaller than before, all the fight drained from her, and I felt it.

That pull.

That uncomfortable, undeniable realization that I didn’t just want to protect her.

I wanted her with me.

Safe. Close.

And then things began to unravel.

I moved her into my space. She started wearing my clothes. We started falling asleep next to each other.

And now?

Now, I’m so fucking gone for her that I don’t even know where the line is anymore.

I keep redrawing it. I keep telling myself I won’t cross it.