You stared at your reflection for way too long, adjusting the strap of your dress that just wouldn’t sit right over your shoulder. Your curves had changed—softened—and though people swore you looked “incredible for just having a baby,” your body didn’t feel like yours yet. You tugged the hem down one last time, glanced at the baby monitor, and whispered a silent promise to Aurora that you’d be back before midnight.

You hadn’t been out in months. Not really. Not without a diaper bag, not without spit-up on your shirt or lullabies playing on your phone. So when Maddie and Cam invited you to that cozy new rooftop bar in Westwood, you almost said no.

But you were tired. Not just sleepy-tired, soul-tired. And part of you needed to feel like yourself again. Even if only for a couple of hours.

You hadn’t planned to bring Aurora. Your mom was supposed to babysit, but a last-minute migraine took her out. You almost canceled. Again. But Maddie insisted—“Just bring her! We’ll all die to meet her anyway. She’ll sleep through everything, promise.” So you packed the stroller, kissed Aurora’s fuzzy head, and tried to ignore the nervous twist in your stomach.

The bar was low-lit and intimate, tucked between a bookstore and an old cinema marquee. You instantly regretted the heels—what were you thinking, pairing them with a stroller? But people smiled as you passed, some cooing softly at the bundled-up baby. You smiled back, clutching the diaper bag like a shield.

And for the first hour, everything was fine. Easy, even. The music was mellow, your drink non-alcoholic, and your friends full of the kind of warm, superficial updates that made you feel human again. Aurora slept like the angel she always was in public, waking only once for her bottle before drifting off again on your chest.

You were just starting to relax.

Until you saw him.

He was at the far end of the bar, half-turned in profile. Tall. Tailored. Grayson Hawthorne, unmistakable even in dim light. Golden-blond hair neatly combed, gray eyes scanning the room like he didn’t quite belong. He always had that look—like he was visiting Earth, already thinking about the next planet. Or the next boardroom.

You froze. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He couldn’t be here. Toronto was three thousand miles away.

But then his eyes met yours.

It took him no more than a second. His whole body stiffened. His brows drew together—not in confusion, but recognition. And something else. Something sharp.

You hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not since the day you both walked away before distance and ambition tore you apart in uglier ways. You hadn’t spoken. Not once. You thought that was mercy. You thought silence would be cleaner.

But there was nothing clean about the way he was looking at you now.

His gaze dropped from your face to the bundle on your chest.

Aurora stirred.

And Grayson stopped breathing.

He moved before you could. Crossed the space like the room didn’t exist. His eyes locked on the tiny baby curled against your body.

“Is she—” he started, then stopped, jaw tight.

Your heart pounded. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He looked at you like he already knew. Like he was doing the math in his head. And he was good at math.

When he spoke, his voice was too even. “What’s her name?”

You swallowed. “Aurora.”

His shoulders rose, then dropped, like he’d been holding something heavy for too long. “You weren’t going to tell me?”

There was no accusation in his voice.

That made it worse.

You held Aurora closer. “I couldn’t.”

His jaw clenched. But he didn’t argue. Of course not. He always processed before reacting. That was Grayson. Quiet. Measured. Unreadable—until he wasn’t.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly too aware of your dress, of the frizz at your hairline, the dark circles your concealer couldn’t hide. He looked perfect.

You didn’t.