Sophie’s POV
The café is half-empty at this hour, mid-afternoon lull settling over the tables in comfortable quiet. Cleo is already waiting in the corner booth, two coffees and a plate of pastries arranged in front of her like offerings.
"You look like hell," she says by way of greeting.
"Thanks. Feels like it."
I slide into the booth across from her, sinking into the cushioned seat with relief that borders on religious experience. Three whole hours without diapers, without screaming, without the weight of a tiny human demanding things I don't know how to give.
Bellamy practically pushed me out the door when I mentioned Cleo wanted to meet—go, take the time, I've got her.
"How's the little terror?" Cleo slides a coffee toward me.
"Alive. Fed. Recently changed." I wrap my hands around the mug, drawing warmth from the ceramic. "Which is apparently the bar for successful parenting now. Any day she survives, I call a win."
"Soph." Cleo's voice softens. "How are you?"
I stare into my coffee, watching the steam curl.
"I don't know," I admit quietly. "Some days I think we're figuring it out. Other days I look at Adrian across the apartment and realize I have no idea who he is, who we are or what we're doing."
I tell her how Adrian disappears into his study the second things get hard. How he looks at Amelia like she's a quiz he can't solve. How we haven't really touched each other in weeks—not with intention, not with any of the heat that got us into this mess in the first place.
How Bellamy, who started as an unwelcome shadow, has somehow become the steady thing I reach for when I'm drowning.
"That's dangerous territory, Soph."
"I know."
"Does Adrian see it?"
"I don't know what Adrian sees anymore."
Cleo reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. "You don't have to figure it all out right away. Let’s just enjoy ourselves today, shall we?"
We talk about lighter things after that: Ayden's latest disaster, her mother's escalating demands for grandchildren. Even the neighbor's dog that's apparently learned to open doors.
For a while, I remember what it feels like to be a twenty-two-year-old woman and not just a milk-stained vessel for an infant's survival.
***
The apartment is quiet when I let myself in. Too quiet.
"Bellamy?" I set my bag down, listening. "Anyone?"
I follow the soft sound of humming to the kitchen and stop in the doorway.
Bellamy has Amelia balanced against his shoulder, one arm supporting her while the other hand is engaged in an impressive juggling act—bottle in one hand, formula jar balanced against his elbow, the tap running behind him.
There's a folded burp cloth draped over his shoulder, a clean diaper is already laid out on the counter for easy access. He's humming something low and tuneless, swaying back and forth with the automatic rhythm of a man who's done this a thousand times.
Amelia is wide awake but content, little fists curled against his shirt, staring up at him like he hung the moon.
Something warm and complicated unfolds in my chest.
"You're managing," I say softly.
Bellamy glances over, doesn't stop swaying. "Barely. She's decided she's hungry now after refusing the first two attempts. I'm trying to prep the bottle before she changes her mind again."
"I’ll take her." I cross the kitchen, hold out my arms. Amelia transfers with a small sound of complaint that dissolves the moment she settles against my chest.
Bellamy exhales, rolls his shoulders, and turns back to the counter with both hands free now. "Thank you. She doesn't care about efficiency when she's hungry."
"Few people do."
I watch him work. He moves quickly now, flustered in a way he usually isn't—I can see the moment he realizes he hasn't measured the powder yet, then reaches for the jar with the bottle still in his other hand.
Bellamy’s elbow catches the edge.
The jar tips. He makes a scrambling, one-handed save attempt that only makes it worse. The lid flies off mid-fall. Formula powder explodes upward in a white cloud.
Everywhere.
The counter, the floor, the cabinet doors, and most dramatically, all over Bellamy himself. He's covered in white powder from chest to waist, dusted across his dark shirt like he's been caught in a snowstorm.
There's powder in his hair, on his shoulders, settling into every fold of fabric.
I stare at him with wide eyes, about to ask if he's okay, words forming on my lips…
When I hear Amelia's laughter—bright, bubbling, genuine baby laughter that I've never heard before.
The crying has stopped completely—cut off mid-wail like someone flipped a switch. She's staring at Bellamy covered in formula powder, tiny mouth open in delighted giggles, utterly entertained by the spectacle.
‘Her first real laugh.’
Bellamy and I exchange astonished looks across the kitchen. His expression mirrors my own shock—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, frozen in place like he's afraid any movement might break the spell.
Then we both start laughing too. Relief and absurdity mixing together into something almost hysterical.
I'm laughing so hard I have to lean against the doorframe for support, Amelia giggling in my arms, Bellamy standing in the middle of the kitchen covered in powder looking utterly bewildered.
"I can't believe," I gasp between laughs. "Your face—"
"Glad my suffering entertains you both," Bellamy says dryly, but he's grinning, actually grinning, broad and genuine in a way I rarely see from him.
We finish preparing the formula properly—Bellamy cleaning up enough powder to make another attempt, me holding a now-calm Amelia who watches the whole process with fascinated attention.
She takes the bottle eagerly when it's ready, drinking peacefully like the past twenty minutes of screaming never happened.
I place her in the baby swing afterward, and she coos happily, making small gurgling sounds of contentment. Little traitor. All that torture, and one formula explosion was all it took to make her happy.
"Here," I say, turning back to Bellamy who's still dusted in white powder. "Let me help."
I start brushing the powder off his clothes, off his shoulders and arms where it's accumulated in visible layers. There's formula in his hair—I reach up to brush it out, fingers threading through the dark strands.
On his shoulders, clinging to the fabric of his shirt. Dusted across his chest in patterns that would be funny if my heart wasn't suddenly racing.
Bellamy goes completely still, lets me touch him without moving, without speaking, but staring at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The air between us shifts into something charged, dangerous.
I reach up to wipe the powder from his face, my hand trembling slightly as my fingers brush across his cheekbone. His skin is warm beneath my touch. He doesn't pull away.
His gaze, probably thinking he's being subtle but failing completely, drifts down to my lips. Lingers there for a beat too long. Then back up to meet my eyes with an expression I can't misread.
Want. Clear and undisguised.
The kitchen feels smaller suddenly. Warmer. Like all the air has been sucked out and replaced with electricity. My hand is still on his face, frozen in place. His lips part slightly, as if about to speak. Or—
The doorbell rings.
The moment shatters like glass. I step back quickly, hand dropping from his face, putting immediate distance between us.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Bellamy's jaw clenches, and I see frustration flash across his features before he schools his expression back to neutral.
"I'll get it," I say, voice coming out higher than normal. I turn away before he can respond, before I can do something stupid like close that distance again.
I move through the living room toward the front door, trying to calm my breathing, trying to ignore the way my hands are still trembling. This is fine. Nothing happened. We were just… He was just…
I open the door.
An older woman stands on the doorstep. Elegant, well-dressed in tailored slacks and a silk blouse that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
She's examining me with sharp, assessing eyes that take in everything—my disheveled hair, my milk-stained shirt, the exhaustion carved into my face.
"Can I help you?" My voice comes out more defensive than I intended.
The woman's expression doesn't change. "Does Adrian live here?"
I immediately tense. After everything with Lisette, with paparazzi ambushing us, with constant invasions of privacy, I'm wary of everyone. Every stranger at the door could be a reporter, a photographer, someone looking to exploit our scandal for profit.
I don't answer directly. "Who's asking?"
Before the woman can respond, Bellamy appears behind me. His hand settles on my shoulder, gently but firmly guiding me backward with his body—his signature protective move, the one I'm starting to recognize instinctively.
He positions himself between me and the potential threat, voice shifting into professional guard mode.
"Who are you, and what's your business here?"
The woman's gaze shifts to Bellamy, taking in his protective stance, the formula powder still visible on his clothes. One elegant eyebrow raises slightly.
When she speaks, her voice is calm, cultured, carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed.
"My name is Eleanor. I am Adrian's mother."