Bellamy’s POV
I watch them from the doorway.
Sophie is asleep, finally—her face slack with exhaustion, the tension that's been carved into her features for days softening into something almost peaceful.
Adrian is beside her, slouched in the chair he's refused to leave, one hand resting on her belly even in unconsciousness. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even.
They look peaceful. A snapshot of the family they're trying to become.
Something twists in my chest.
I step back, quiet, careful not to disturb them. The hallway stretches out in both directions—sterile white walls, fluorescent lights that never dim, the distant murmur of nurses and machines.
Hospitals at night have a particular kind of silence. Heavy. Waiting.
I should feel nothing. This is a job, a debt. I'm here because Adrian saved my life fifteen years ago, walked into enemy territory alone and burned his entire world down to pull me out of a warehouse where I was certain I'd die.
That ledger doesn't balance with money. Doesn't balance with time. Some debts can only be repaid with presence, with loyalty, with showing up when called no matter how much you'd rather stay away.
I'm here to protect his pregnant girlfriend. That's all. Guard the door. Watch for threats. Make sure she survives long enough to give birth to his child.
So why does watching her sleep make my chest ache?
The vending machine at the end of the hall glows like a beacon. I head toward it, needing distance, needing something to do with my hands. The options behind the glass are the usual hospital fare—candy bars, chips, drinks in plastic bottles. Nothing I want.
I stare at them anyway.
"Can't sleep either?"
I turn. A nurse stands behind me, middle-aged, tired around the eyes but kind. Her scrubs are printed with cartoon cats.
"Just taking a break."
"The father, right? Of the baby?"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "No. I'm just... security."
"Ah." She nods like that explains everything. "Well, your friend is doing great. Baby's heartbeat is strong. Should be able to go home in a day or two, as long as she follows the bed rest orders."
"She will."
"Make sure of it. That little girl's got a lot of people rooting for her." The nurse pats my arm, a maternal gesture that catches me off guard, and continues down the hall.
I turn back to the vending machine. Press my forehead against the cold glass.
I think about Olivia. How she looked in a hospital bed just like the one Sophie's lying in now—pale, fragile, fighting a battle her body was never going to win.
I remember holding her hand through the contractions, promising everything would be fine, promising I'd take care of her, promising our son would know how much his mother loved him.
I remember the way she smiled at me, even through the pain. Believing me. Trusting me.
I remember the moment the machines started screaming.
I lied to her. I told her everything would be fine, and then I watched her die, and then I held Noah in my arms while the world collapsed around me.
Sophie isn't Olivia.
I know that. The resemblance that startled me when I first walked into Adrian's apartment has faded into something else—not absence, but recognition that they're different people.
Olivia was soft where Sophie is sharp. Patient where Sophie is stubborn. Olivia never pushed back, never challenged, never demanded more than I was willing to give.
Sophie demands everything.
I think about our conversations during bed rest. The hours I spent in that doorway, pretending to guard while really just... talking. Books and music and Noah's obsession with Mr. Carrots.
The way she laughed at my terrible jokes—real laughter, surprised out of her, like she didn't expect to find anything funny in her current circumstances.
I think about the day at the lake. How she held Noah like he was something precious, tears sliding down her cheeks while my son tugged at her hair with chubby fingers. The way she looked at me when I told her about Olivia—not with pity, but with understanding. Recognition.
You remind me of her, I'd said. And I'd meant it as explanation, as excuse, as reason for the walls I couldn't seem to keep up around her.
But it was also a lie.
Sophie doesn't remind me of Olivia anymore. She's become her own shape in my mind—separate, distinct, impossible to confuse with anyone else.
The stubborn tilt of her chin. The fire in her eyes when she's angry. The way she refuses to break, no matter what gets thrown at her.
I think about the almost-kiss. Adrian's apartment. Her reaching for a blanket. My face suddenly inches from hers. The moment stretching between us, charged and dangerous, neither of us moving.
We haven't mentioned it since. Haven't acknowledged the electricity that crackled in that silence, the awareness that something was shifting between us.
I press harder against the vending machine glass. The cold bites into my skin.
I have feelings for her. Real ones. The kind I swore I'd never let myself feel again after burying Olivia, after lowering her into the ground and walking away with a screaming infant and the certainty that love was a trap I'd never fall into twice.
And it doesn't matter. None of it matters.
She's carrying Adrian's child. She's chosen Adrian, despite his secrets, despite his darkness, despite everything he's put her through. They're in that room right now, tangled together, building something I have no part in.
I'm just the man who guards the door.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out. A photo from the nanny fills the screen—Noah asleep in his crib, Mr. Carrots clutched against his chest, his face peaceful in a way that always makes my heart clench.
She's added a text beneath it: Sweet dreams. He asked about Daddy before bed.
I stare at my son's face.
This is what matters. This small, perfect person who depends on me, who needs me to come home whole, who deserves a father whose heart isn't tangled up in impossible feelings for impossible women.
Noah is what matters.
I pocket the phone, then take a breath, let it out slowly.
Then I return to my post outside Sophie's room.
The door is cracked open just enough to see them—Sophie still sleeping, Adrian still holding her belly, the monitors still beeping their steady rhythm. A family in the making. A future that doesn't include me.
I don't go back inside.
I stand in the hallway, alone, and watch over them from a distance.
It's what I'm here for. It's all I'm here for.