Chapter 123 123

Chapter 123 123
\[Selena's POV\]

The weeks that follow are a study in careful balance.

Alessandro throws himself into exploring alternatives to traditional academic positions, spending hours researching consulting firms and publishing opportunities and independent think tanks that might value his expertise without requiring him to navigate the political minefield Vanelope has created.

Caden helps where he can, bringing his analytical mind to bear on job listings and networking strategies, approaching Alessandro 's career crisis with the same methodical attention he brings to everything.

And I... I grow.

Meghan is five months along now, and my body has transformed in ways that still startle me when I catch my reflection unexpectedly. The small curve that was barely visible a few weeks ago has become undeniably pregnant—a round swell beneath my clothes that strangers notice, that prompts unsolicited advice from well-meaning women in grocery stores, that makes subway seats magically available when they weren't before.
I'm learning to accept help. It's harder than I expected. Every offered hand feels like an admission of weakness, every kindness a debt I'm not sure I can repay. The independence I've clung to for so long loosens its grip reluctantly, finger by finger, leaving me raw and uncertain in its absence.

Today is a good day. The nausea that plagued my first trimester has finally faded, replaced by an appetite that both men find amusing and occasionally alarming. The energy that abandoned me for months has started to return, leaving me restless in a way that demands activity. Sunlight streams through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the floor, and something in my chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.

"I want to do something," I announce over breakfast, setting down my fork with more force than necessary. "Something that isn't sitting in this apartment waiting for the next crisis to hit."

Alessandro looks up from his laptop, where he's been drafting a proposal for a consulting opportunity that actually seems promising. Caden pauses mid-bite, his eyebrows raised in that expression of careful curiosity I've come to recognize.

"What kind of something?" Alessandro asks.
"I don't know. Something normal. Something that regular pregnant women do that doesn't involve conspiracy theories or career sabotage or figuring out how to explain our relationship to nosy strangers."

I gesture vaguely at the apartment, at the walls that have started to feel confining despite their comfort. "I feel like we've been in crisis mode for months. And I know there are real crises happening—I'm not dismissing that. But I need a break. We all need a break."

Caden and Alessandro exchange one of those looks they've developed—silent communication that used to make me feel excluded and now just makes me feel known. They're checking in with each other, making sure they're aligned before responding.

"What did you have in mind?" Caden asks.
The question catches me off guard. I'd been so focused on expressing the need that I hadn't actually thought through the specifics. But as I consider it, an idea forms—something that's been hovering at the edges of my consciousness for weeks.

"The baby class," I say slowly. "The one Dr. Patel mentioned at our last appointment. Prenatal yoga and birthing preparation. I've been putting it off because... I don't know, it felt too normal. Too much like admitting that this is actually happening."
"It is actually happening," Alessandro points out gently. "In about four months, we're going to have a daughter. Preparing for that seems reasonable."
"I know. But preparing means accepting. And accepting means..." I trail off, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions beneath my reluctance. "It means letting myself want this. Fully. Without reservation. And every time I do that, something goes wrong."

The confession lands between us with the weight of everything I've been carrying. The collapse. The hospital. The Stanford rejection. A lifetime of learning that hope is dangerous, that wanting things only leads to losing them. My throat tightens around words I can't quite speak—the fear that joy is just grief waiting to happen.

Caden moves first, sliding out of his chair and coming to kneel beside mine. His hand finds my knee, warm and grounding.

"Something is always going to go wrong," he says quietly. "That's life. But something is also always going to go right. And you don't get to choose which by refusing to hope. You just miss the good parts along with the bad."

Alessandro joins us, crouching on my other side so that I'm surrounded by them both. The position is awkward—three adults crowded around a kitchen chair—but it's also exactly what I need.

"Sign up for the class," Alessandro says. "We'll go with you. Both of us. We'll be the weird couple-plus-one that makes everyone else uncomfortable, and we'll learn how to breathe through contractions, and we'll buy matching yoga mats if that's what it takes."

I laugh despite myself, the sound wet with tears I didn't realize were falling. "Matching yoga mats?"
"In coordinating colors. Very fashionable."

"You don't own a yoga mat."

"I'll buy one. Two, actually. Caden needs one too."
Caden looks faintly alarmed at the prospect. "I'm not sure yoga is really my—"

"You're doing yoga," Alessandro cuts him off cheerfully. "We're all doing yoga. It's a family activity now."

The absurdity of the conversation—the image of Caden attempting downward dog with his usual analytical intensity—breaks through the last of my resistance.

I'm laughing and crying at the same time, overwhelmed by the simple fact that these two impossible men are willing to do anything, even embarrassing prenatal yoga, to make me feel supported.

"Okay," I manage finally. "Okay. I'll sign up."
"We'll be there," Caden promises.
"With matching yoga mats," Alessandro adds.
"Coordinating," Caden corrects. "Not matching. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"There absolutely is."

I listen to them debate the distinction between matching and coordinating with a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with hormones. This is what family looks like, I realize. Not the absence of problems, but the presence of people who show up anyway. Who make you laugh when you want to cry. Who buy yoga mats in coordinating colors because you mentioned, once, that you wanted to feel normal.

Meghan kicks, a strong flutter against my palm, and I smile down at my stomach.
"Your dads are ridiculous," I tell her quietly.