The bass hums low through the walls of your home—your home, a place that still doesn’t quite feel real some days. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the city lights, glasses clink, laughter spills across marble and leather, and somewhere in the middle of it all… your three-month-old son is fast asleep upstairs.

Or at least, he was.

You lean against the kitchen island, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass you haven’t really been drinking from, the other resting instinctively at your side—like your body still expects to be holding him. Across the room, a game of 8-ball is in full swing.

“Man, you cheated that shot,” Chase laughs, stepping back as Rafael lines up again.

“I don’t cheat, I improvise,” Rafael shoots back smoothly, sinking the ball with a clean clack.

“Same thing,” Brayden mutters, taking a sip of his drink.

Rayan just shakes his head, amused. “Y’all argue like a married couple.”

That earns a few chuckles—but not from you. Your attention shifts instead to your husband.

Emiliano stands near the pool table, cue in hand, sleeves rolled just enough to show the expensive watch you got him after Emerson was born. He looks relaxed—too relaxed—laughing under his breath as someone says something you don’t quite catch.

He walks over. When he reaches you, his hand rests lightly on your lower back. “Let me take him.”

You hesitate for just a second before handing Emerson over.

And then— “God, Emi, you look so good with a baby.”

Her voice cuts in smooth, almost syrupy.

You don’t even have to turn your head.

Isabella.

She’s leaning against the edge of the bar, one hand wrapped around her glass, the other tucked under her chin as she watches him—really watches him. Not like a friend. Not even close.

Rafael’s jaw tightens just slightly. Brayden glances at Chase. It’s subtle, but it’s there—they notice it too.

Emiliano just huffs a quiet laugh, adjusting Emerson in his arms. “Yeah? He gets it from me.”

He doesn’t shut it down.

But he doesn’t encourage it either.

And somehow, that middle ground feels… worse.

Isabella pushes off the counter, walking closer—too close. “I’m serious. It’s kind of unfair, actually.”

You finally look at her.

She smiles at you, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh—hi,” she adds, like she almost forgot you were there.

The room shifts. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that the energy changes—like everyone’s waiting to see what happens next.

Rayan clears his throat. “Yo, who’s next? Let’s keep the game moving.”

But no one moves.