Daphne’s POV
Archie finds me in the library on Thursday afternoon. I'm curled up in the window seat with a book I'm not actually reading, just staring at the same page while my mind wanders through the complicated landscape of my marriage.
Hope is napping upstairs, the twins are at their activity with Margaret, and for the first time in weeks, the house feels quiet rather than suffocating.
"Got a minute?" he asks from the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee like peace offerings.
I set the book aside, grateful for the interruption. "Always. Come sit."
He settles into the armchair across from me, handing over one of the mugs. The coffee is perfect—the way I've been taking it since the twins were born, with just enough cream to cool it down for quick drinking between interruptions.
He remembers these details, the small pieces of information that make him so good at his job and so easy to talk to.
"How are you doing?" he asks, and the question carries real weight.
For the first time since Hope was born, I don't have to lie.
"Better," I admit, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "Things with Xander are... different."
"Different how?"
I search for words that capture the complexity without oversharing. "Not fixed, we're not magically healed or anything. But not shattered in the same way we were. We're trying, actually trying instead of just existing in the same house while avoiding each other."
Archie studies me, and I watch his expression shift as he takes in details I'm not saying out loud. "You look lighter. The constant tension in your shoulders—it's eased."
I hadn't realized how visible it was, the weight I've been carrying. But he's right, something has shifted in the past few days. The knot that's been lodged between my shoulder blades since the hospital has loosened.
"What changed?" he asks gently.
A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. "We talked, and then..." I pause, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Then we stopped talking for a while."
Archie's laugh is immediate and genuine, understanding flooding his face. "Ah. That kind of conversation."
"That kind of conversation," I confirm, unable to keep the smile off my face now.
"Good. That's good, Daphne." He leans forward, his expression earnest. "I've been worried about you both. Watching you orbit each other like wounded planets—it's been hard to witness."
"I know, and I'm sorry you've been caught in the middle of it. That wasn't fair to you."
"Don't apologize. You're family. Both of you. That's what family does—sticks around during the hard parts." He takes a sip of coffee, then adds carefully, "But I'm glad you're finding your way back to each other. You belong together. Anyone can see that."
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tight. I'm not sure I share his confidence—I still don't know if love alone is enough to bridge what broke between us—but I appreciate the belief anyway.
"What about you?" I ask, needing to shift the conversation away from my fragile marriage. "How are things going with Maya?"
His face transforms immediately. The concern for me melts into something softer, happier, the kind of expression that belongs to people who've found something worth keeping.
"Really good," he says, and there's wonder in his voice. "Better than good. She's…" He stops, searching for words. "I know it's fast, I know we haven't been together that long. But I'm thinking about the future. Real future, not just hypothetical someday plans."
"Like what?"
"Like asking her to move in with me. My apartment's small, but we could find something bigger together. Or…" He hesitates, then continues with the kind of vulnerable honesty that makes him such a good friend. "Or more. Marriage, kids, the whole thing. I look at her and I can see it all, you know? The life we could build together."
The happiness radiating off him is contagious. I feel genuine joy for him—for both of them—warming my chest. After everything Archie's been through with his family, with his brother's death and his parents' endless demands, he deserves this.
Deserves someone who makes him light up like this, who gives him hope for futures that aren't defined by past tragedy.
"That's wonderful, Archie. Really. Maya's lucky to have you."
"I'm the lucky one," he says with complete sincerity. "She's… She's everything I didn't know I was looking for. Smart and capable and strong, but also vulnerable in ways she doesn't show anyone else. She gets me, you know? The parts I don't usually let people see."
I nod, understanding that feeling intimately. Finding someone who sees you completely and loves you anyway—it's rare and precious and worth fighting for.
But as he talks about Maya, about the plans they're making, the trips they want to take, the life they're building—something nags at me. A disquiet I can't quite name.
"Does she seem okay to you?" I ask before I can think better of it. "Maya, I mean. Lately?"
Archie's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Sometimes she seems... distant. Distracted. Like she's carrying weight she won't share."
I set down my coffee mug, trying to articulate the impression that's been building in the margins of my awareness.
"The other day, I found her in the twins' room just standing there, watching them sleep. When I asked if she was okay, she said she was fine. But her eyes were wet, like she'd been crying."
"She's been emotional lately," Archie says slowly. "But I figured that was just—everyone in this house has been under so much stress. The situation with you and Xander, Hope's health concerns, the twins picking up on all the tension. It's a lot to be around."
"You're probably right." I pick up my coffee again, taking a sip to give myself something to do with my hands. "I'm probably just projecting. God knows I've been carrying impossible weight for weeks. Maybe I'm seeing it everywhere now, even when it's not there."
But the nagging feeling doesn't quite dissipate. Something about the way Maya looked in that moment—standing in the doorway of the twins' room, tears on her face, the expression of someone saying goodbye rather than simply watching children sleep.
It felt off in a way I couldn't articulate then and can't explain now.
"She loves the twins," Archie says, and there's certainty in his voice. "And she cares about your family. Maybe she's just feeling the weight of everything that's happened. She was there when you went into labor, rode in the ambulance with you. That's traumatic to witness."
"You're right. Of course you're right." I force myself to let it go, to stop looking for problems where there might not be any. "I'm probably reading too much into things. Everyone's allowed to have emotional moments without it meaning something dire."
Archie reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Hey. After what you've been through, you're allowed to be hypervigilant. But Maya's okay. We're okay. And you and Xander are going to be okay too."
I squeeze back and smile carelessly, grateful for his steadiness. "Amen."
We finish our coffee talking about lighter things—the twins' upcoming school play, Hope's first smile (or what might have been gas but we're counting it anyway), Archie's plans to take Maya somewhere special this weekend.
Normal conversation, the kind we used to have before crisis became our default state. But after he leaves, the nagging feeling lingers. I stand at the library window, watching the afternoon light fade, and think about Maya's face in that doorway.
The tears, the expression of loss rather than affection…
I shake my head, dismissing my own instincts.