- That her morning sickness hit hardest at 2:30 AM.
- That she cried after every doctor’s appointment—alone.
- That she’d started knitting tiny booties last week, then shoved them in a drawer when she realized what it meant.
- Stocking her fridge with pre-cut fruit because chopping made her dizzy.
- Memorizing obstetrician numbers like they were lyrics.
- Watching her doze off on his couch, one hand curled protectively over her stomach—Porsche’s child, growing in the woman Porsche couldn’t let go.
2026 – Third’s Living Room, 3 AM
The city outside was quiet, but Third’s phone buzzed relentlessly—Porsche’s seventeenth unanswered call flashing across the screen.
He ignored it.
Instead, he focused on the trembling hands of the woman sitting across from him—her face pale, fingers clutching a mug of ginger tea he’d made without asking. Just the way she liked it.
He knew things he shouldn’t.
Third wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not like this.
Not sitting on the floor with Porsche’s ex, rubbing circles on her back while she hunched over, fighting another wave of nausea.
("You’re picking sides?" Porsche had snarled last week. "After everything?")
But Third had just shrugged.
Some things mattered more than loyalty.
Like the way she’d shown up at his door tonight—panic in her eyes, no shoes, just a whispered "I can’t do this alone."
So here he was:
His phone buzzed again.
This time, Third silenced it.
Outside, dawn bled pink over Bangkok.
A new day.
A new life.
And Third—stuck between two people he loved—whispered the only truth left:
"You won’t have to."