Page 103 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

It settles deep in my chest like a storm cloud, low and threatening.

And for the first time in weeks, I realize

I’m scared. And not for me.

For her.

23

SOPHIE

I curl into the corner of my couch, legs tucked under me, wrapped in one of Alessio’s oversized shirts that hangs off one shoulder. The cotton smells like him, warm and faintly spicy, and it feels like a second skin. The kind I don’t want to take off.

Takeout containers litter the coffee table, half-eaten pad thai and a mess of crumpled napkins. It’s chaos. Cozy, delicious chaos.

Alessio pads in from the kitchen barefoot, his damp hair sticking up in wild tufts, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He’s holding a bottle of wine in one hand, two mismatched glasses in the other. His grin is lazy and lopsided, like he’s never been more content in his life.

He settles beside me, close enough that our thighs touch, and hands me a spring roll like it’s a peace offering. Or maybe a bribe.

He cracks open the wine with a casual twist. “I know it’s not some glitzy dinner party, but I figured you deserved a night off.”

I take the spring roll and bump his knee with mine. “It’s perfect.”

And I mean it.

Even with the static of uncertainty buzzing at the back of my mind.

Even with the world beyond this apartment still sharp and waiting.

Right here, right now, wrapped in food, wine, and the comfort of him...

It feels like everything.

We eat like we’re starved. Passing cartons back and forth, stealing bites from each other’s plates without asking.

The quiet that fills the room isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable. Familiar. The kind of silence that only happens when you know you don’t have to say a thing to be heard.

Alessio attempts to use chopsticks, fumbling with them like they’re surgical tools. He stabs at a noodle, misses, then sighs dramatically.

“Why are these even legal?” He squints at the chopsticks like they’ve personally offended him.

Then he switches into a thick, over-the-top Italian accent. “In my country, we eat with a fork. A proper one. With pride.”

I nearly choke on a spoonful of curry, laughter bursting out of me so suddenly it turns into a snort.

He grins. “If I keep this up, you might actually start to like me.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile’s already spreading across my face. And I don’t bother denying it.

When the cartons are empty and the wine glasses are half full, he leans toward me. Close. His hand brushes mine, then trails up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

His lips press against my jaw, soft, unhurried. Warm.

“You amaze me. You know that?”

I smile, but something flutters in my chest, sharp and unexpected.

No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that. Not without wanting something in return.

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