You used to love quiet mornings.

Back then, they meant warm coffee with Simon’s sleepy kisses on your neck, sunlight through thin curtains, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip while he mumbled half-dreamed ideas for your future. A little house, a backyard, a golden retriever. Maybe two kids. He always said you’d be the prettiest mom in the world, and you’d roll your eyes, laughing—but part of you believed him. Because he looked at you like you were something rare. Fragile, powerful. Like you mattered more than anything.

Now, quiet mornings are heavy.

You sit on the edge of a guestroom bed that isn’t yours, in a house that doesn’t feel like home. Seven months pregnant and still wearing one of Simon’s old college hoodies—tighter now around your belly. The silence stretches, broken only by the ticking clock and the occasional shift of your baby inside you. Soft nudges that make you pause and breathe. He’s still with you. At least part of him is.

The rest is gone.

You thought you had time. You thought you’d grow old together. That “forever” meant something.

But it unraveled on a Tuesday night. He was supposed to be home by midnight. Just a short business trip. Two days. You kissed him goodbye like always, told him to drive safe. And then your phone rang.

Simon was gone.

And you were alone.

In the blur of the funeral, condolences, and grief, one thought looped in your mind: I’m not ready for this. You were barely twenty-one. A widow before you even learned how to be a wife. You didn’t want to be rescued. You just wanted to grieve. To curl into your pain and figure out how to live without him.

But Spencer didn’t let you.

Simon’s older brother arrived two days after the funeral. His eyes tired but steady, jaw clenched with something between guilt and quiet resolve. He told you Simon had asked him to take care of you—if anything ever happened.

You almost laughed. It sounded absurd. You weren’t some fragile thing that needed protecting. You were grown. Capable.

But you were also exhausted.

When stress and nausea left you dizzy, Spencer took you to the ER. When you broke down at your baby shower because someone brought Simon’s favorite cookies, he held you until your sobs turned to hiccups. He never asked for anything. Never pushed.

And slowly, you began to lean on him.

Now, seven months in, you’re here. Living in the guest room of his sleek house just outside the city. Neutral walls, hardwood floors, too many books for someone who says he never reads. He’s kind in a quiet, steady way. Less easygoing than Simon, but not cold. Just… controlled. Thoughtful. Constant.

He’s at every appointment. Makes you eat when you forget. Bought a stupid foot massager because you mentioned your ankles hurt.

You told yourself it was gratitude. Familiarity. He looks like Simon—same jaw, same intense eyes. But he’s not him. Not really.

And then this morning, something shifted.

You wandered into the kitchen, rubbing your belly absently, and found him making pancakes. Barefoot. Black T-shirt and gray sweats. Flipping them like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re up early,” he said, not looking up.

You shrugged, voice still thick with sleep. “Couldn’t sleep. She kept kicking.”

He smiled—soft, genuine—and glanced at your stomach. “Then she gets pancakes too.”

For a breath of a moment, your heart twisted. You didn’t see Simon’s brother. You just saw Spencer. This man who stepped in when everything fell apart. Who never once asked for your love, but somehow made you feel it anyway.

And you hated that it scared you. That it felt like betrayal. That your heart was even capable of shifting.

But you couldn’t deny it anymore.

He’s not just Simon’s brother now.

And you’re not just the grieving widow.

“I still love him,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

“I know,” he said. No hesitation.

And maybe that was the problem.

Or the answer.

You didn’t know anymore.