Bellamy’s POV
I watch it happen in slow motion over the following days.
Adrian tries, I'll give him that. He genuinely tries.
I see him attempt to soothe Amelia when she cries—picking her up, rocking her, offering bottles with hands that shake from either exhaustion or desperation.
The baby screams louder. Sophie intervenes. Amelia calms immediately in her mother's arms. Adrian's face shutters into that blank expression I've learned means he's drowning internally.
I see him offer to help with laundry. He mixes colors and whites, shrinks Sophie's favorite sweater. She doesn't yell—just takes over with quiet resignation that somehow seems worse than anger.
I see him try to engage Sophie in conversation over dinner. Asking about her coursework, her family, anything to bridge the distance. She answers in polite monosyllables while feeding Amelia, not meeting his eyes.
The gap between Adrian's intentions and his execution grows wider each day. More painful to witness.
But what destroys me is watching Sophie's hope die incrementally.
The morning after their reconnection, she'd been different. Softer. She'd smiled at nothing, touched Adrian's arm when passing, looked at him like maybe they could survive this.
I'd maintained professional distance and tried not to think about what that smile meant, what they'd done the night before to put that light back in her eyes.
By day two, the light was dimming. Adrian got soap in Amelia's eyes during bath time. Sophie took over with barely concealed frustration.
By day three, Sophie stopped smiling. Stopped reaching for Adrian. Started looking at him with something that resembled pity more than love.
By day four, the light was gone completely. She moved through the apartment like a ghost again, mechanical and joyless, the brief hope extinguished.
Now it's day five, and I'm watching her break.
Adrian locked himself in his study an hour ago. Some work call that apparently couldn't wait, couldn't be postponed despite Sophie asking—quietly, carefully—if he could watch Amelia for just twenty minutes while she took a shower.
He'd looked at our daughter like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve, then retreated to his study with mumbled apologies about conference calls.
Sophie hadn't argued. Just nodded and carried Amelia to the living room.
I find her there now, sitting on the couch with the baby against her chest. Tears stream silently down her face—not the violent sobbing of acute grief, but the quiet crying of someone who's run out of fight.
"Sophie." I keep my voice low, careful. "What do you need?"
She looks up at me with eyes so hollow it physically hurts.
"I thought it meant something." Her voice cracks. "The other night. I thought we'd turned a corner, found our way back to each other."
I settle carefully on the couch beside her. Not too close. Maintaining the professional distance that's becoming harder to sustain every day. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. That's the problem. Nothing changed."
She laughs bitterly.
"We had one good night and I convinced myself it fixed everything. That physical connection meant emotional connection would follow. That if we could still want each other that way, maybe we could figure out the rest."
Amelia stirs against her chest. Sophie adjusts her hold automatically, still crying, body going through practiced motions while her heart breaks.
"But it didn't fix anything," she continues. "Adrian still can't handle Amelia without failing. Still retreats into his study the moment parenting becomes difficult. Still treats fatherhood like a role he's performing rather than a life he's living."
Her voice drops to a whisper. "I don't think he wants this. Any of this. Us."
The words hang between us, devastating in their honesty.
Every instinct I have screams to pull her closer. To tell her she deserves better than a man who can't show up for his own family. To promise I'd never make her feel this way, never leave her drowning while I hide behind work calls and closed doors.
But I can't say any of that. Can't cross lines that, once crossed, can't be uncrossed.
So I do the only thing I can. Rest my hand on her shoulder—nothing more, just the weight of presence—and let her cry.
"He doesn't look at Amelia the way you do." Sophie's confession comes out broken. "You look at her like she's precious, like you'd do anything to protect her. Adrian looks at her like she's a problem he can't solve, an obligation he's trapped with."
My hand tightens on her shoulder involuntarily. "Sophie—"
"I know." She wipes her eyes with her free hand. "I know you can't say what you're thinking. But I see it. The way you watch him fail. The way you step in when he can't handle her. You'd make a better father to Amelia than her actual father."
The words should make me uncomfortable. Should send me retreating to professional distance and neutral platitudes.
Instead they settle in my chest like the truth I've been avoiding.
"You're a good mother," I say quietly. "Whatever happens with Adrian, don't doubt that."
"Am I?" She looks down at Amelia. "Good mothers don't resent their children. Don't wish they could go back and unmake the choices that led here."
"Good mothers are human. They're allowed to grieve the lives they didn't get to live."
Sophie's head drops onto my shoulder. Not a move of seduction or inappropriate intimacy—just exhaustion, seeking any support that won't collapse under her weight.
I let her rest there. Don't pull away. Don't remind her about boundaries.
Just sit in the quiet apartment with her tears soaking into my shirt and the baby sleeping between us and the knowledge that I'm in love with a woman I can't have.
We stay like that for several minutes. Her breathing gradually steadies. Amelia makes small contented sounds in her sleep.
Then I hear it. The study door opening. Footsteps in the hallway.
I should move. Should create distance before Adrian sees us like this. But Sophie needs this support more than I need to protect myself from Adrian's judgment.
Adrian appears in the living room doorway.
His eyes take in the scene with quick assessment—Sophie's tears, my hand still on her shoulder, our heads close together in quiet conversation. Amelia sleeping peacefully between us.
Nothing inappropriate is happening. Nothing that crosses any physical lines.
But the intimacy is undeniable. The emotional connection between us fills the space Adrian should occupy, and we all know it.
His expression goes carefully blank. That shutdown I've learned to recognize as his defense mechanism against feeling anything too intensely.
"Bellamy." His voice is flat. "Can we talk? Privately."
It's not a request.
Sophie sits up, wiping her face quickly. "Adrian?"
"It's fine." He doesn't look at her, just keeps his gaze locked on me. "Bellamy and I need to discuss security protocols anyway."
Security protocols. Right.
“Is Amelia okay?" Adrian asks next.
“I—” Sophie stumbled with an answer, almost surprised. “Yes. Yes, calmed down.”
“Good.”
I stand slowly, every muscle tense. Sophie's hand briefly catches mine—a silent plea I can't interpret. Support? Warning? I don't know.
Adrian is already walking toward his study, assuming I'll follow.
I do. Of course I do.
My mind races through possible excuses and explanations. She was upset, I was comforting her, nothing inappropriate happened. All true. All inadequate.
Because Adrian hasn't just witnessed a moment of professional support. He's witnessed months of growing connection he can't compete with. He's seen his family forming around me while he stands on the outside looking in.
And he's seen the truth I've been trying to hide even from myself.