Chapter 23

The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, a low electric hum that seemed to pulse in time with Beth's footsteps. Fluorescent tubes flickered with that erratic insistence unique to old fixtures—flaring bright one moment, dimming the next, like they were just as tired as the night itself. Each time she passed beneath one, the shadows on the walls shifted—angular and twitching, like pale moths caught in the undertow of her movement. This stretch of corridor was just far enough from the patient rooms to feel unclaimed, suspended somewhere between usefulness and abandonment. Not quite liminal, but close. The kind of place where time didn't stop, exactly—it just forgot to move forward.

Beth moved slowly, the soles of her shoes soft against the polished tile, the murmur of distant voices long faded behind her. The hospital felt different this late—hushed, but not silent. Awake, but only just. She passed a bulletin board cluttered with cheerful cartoon anatomy diagrams and outdated event flyers curling at the edges, then came to a stop in front of the vending machine nestled beside a trio of molded plastic chairs. They gleamed faintly beneath the fluorescent wash, their hard seats slick with that particular kind of shine that never felt clean, only recently wiped.

The vending machine's touchscreen glowed with a weary blue tint, like it had been lit too long without rest. The glow didn't warm the air—it chilled it, underscoring the sterile quiet of the hall. Behind the glass, the rows of cans and bottles stood like obedient soldiers, gleaming under artificial light. Their labels were bright, busy, unfamiliar. Most of them were stamped in Hangul, the elegant curves and sharp angles of the script reminding her—again—that she was far from home. A few items bore English subtitles, but they didn't make the choices easier. Everything felt like too much: too many options, too many colors, too many flavors promising energy or calm or clarity. She didn't want any of that. Not really. She just wanted something cold. Something caffeinated. Something that didn't feel like another decision weighted with consequence.

The air around her smelled as it always did here—of antiseptic and laundered linen, over-chlorinated cleaning products and processed cafeteria starch. But it no longer hit like an intrusion. The scent had softened over time, threading itself into her days like background static. It wasn't welcome, but it wasn't foreign either. Just part of the atmosphere now. One more layer to endure.

Beth reached out and tapped the screen.

Nothing happened.

Her brows drew together, a tired pinch of frustration between them. She tapped again, harder this time, the pad of her finger pressing into the glass with unspoken urgency. The machine flickered once—just enough to offer false hope—then blinked out completely, the screen going dark with the finality of a closed curtain.

She stood there for a breath, then exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp and unimpressed, more annoyance than true anger.

"Seriously?" she muttered, her voice quiet but edged.

"Try the lower right corner."

The voice came from behind her, low and even, carrying a gentle cadence that somehow cut clean through the stillness. It wasn't startling—it didn't jolt her—but it rearranged the atmosphere around her like a ripple breaking the surface of still water.

Beth turned, her hand still loosely poised near the dormant touchscreen.

A man stood just a few paces behind her, half-silhouetted in the dim corridor light. He wasn't looming, but he was close enough that she could make out the slope of his shoulders and the relaxed, careful way he held himself—like someone used to attention, and wary of it. A black cap sat low over his brow, and a face mask had been pushed beneath his chin, revealing a mouth set in a mild, unreadable curve. His sweatshirt was dark, the sleeves shoved to his elbows, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. He looked casual, but not careless. Anonymous by design.

And yet—he didn't vanish into the shadows the way some people did. There was something about him that held, like gravity. Not heavy, but steady.

He was taller than she'd expected—not towering, but enough that when her eyes met his, she had to lift her chin slightly. And there it was—just for a flicker, not even a full breath's worth of time—something stirred beneath her ribs. Recognition, maybe. Or just curiosity uncoiling.

She blinked once, slow and deliberate.

He didn't move, just gestured with a nod toward the machine, not pushy, not dismissive.

"It's finicky. You have to press the corner until it hums."

Beth looked back at the darkened screen, then over at him again. Her voice was dry, but not unfriendly. "I'm guessing this isn't your first time fighting with a hospital vending machine."

The smile that pulled at his mouth wasn't automatic—it felt earned. Small, soft, like it came from the part of him that didn't smile easily unless he meant it. "Not lately, no."

She huffed a short, half-laugh. "Good to know it's not just me."

She followed his instruction and pressed the lower right corner of the screen. There was a moment's hesitation, and then, just like he said, the screen blinked back to life with a low, almost imperceptible hum. Beth blinked at it, half amused, half irritated at the fact that he'd been right.

"Wizard," she muttered.

He gave a shrug, modest and offhand. "Just persistent."

She selected an iced coffee and waited as the machine clanked and groaned through its process. With a final mechanical grunt, a can dropped into the retrieval slot.

She bent to grab it, and as she straightened, she felt his eyes on her. Not leering. Not assessing. But attentive—like he was working out a puzzle that had just started making sense.

"You're Beth."

The words weren't asked. They were offered. Certain.

Her hand stilled around the can. She rose the rest of the way, slowly, her posture unconsciously tightening. The chilled aluminum pulsed against her palm, a dull anchor.

She looked at him again, brows tugging together. "And you are?"

He extended a hand. Not forcefully. Just there, open. "Chan."

Beth didn't reach for his hand immediately. Instead, she paused, letting the moment stretch just enough to take his measure. Her eyes scanned his face with quiet scrutiny—not cold, not combative, just practiced in the way of someone who'd long since learned how to read a person before deciding to trust them. There was nothing there that raised alarms. No posturing. No arrogance. His expression was steady but not guarded, patient without expectation. He held himself like someone used to being observed, but unbothered by it. Eventually, she extended her hand and took his, the shake firm but cautious, like she was still reserving the right to pull back if necessary.

"Alex mentioned you," she said, her voice level. "Mac too."

Chan nodded slowly, a flicker of something passing through his eyes, though it didn't quite surface. "She talks about you."

Beth's brows drew together slightly, her suspicion quiet but instinctive. "In what way?"

"In the kind people talk about when they miss home." His voice dropped a register—not dramatically, but enough to shift the tone. Lower. Quieter. The words carried weight, but not the kind that demanded anything. "There's a picture of you in her apartment. You and her kissing your daughter's cheeks while she's giggling. She speaks very highly of you."

Beth didn't respond right away. The can of iced coffee in her hand had begun to sweat, a ring of condensation curling around her fingers like breath caught in the curve of her palm. Her gaze remained fixed on him, steady now, less guarded than before but no less thoughtful. There was something in the way he'd said it—when they miss home—that lodged under her ribs. He hadn't meant it poetically. He'd meant it from somewhere real. Somewhere that understood the shape of absence, the ache of a place—or a person—you couldn't go back to.

"Picture was from Cassie's birthday," she said at last, her voice quieter now. "The last one before Alex left."

Chan gave a small nod, eyes never leaving hers. "She said it was a good day. That Cassie tried to feed the cake to the dog."

"She did," Beth murmured, a faint smile curling one corner of her mouth. It was the kind of smile that surprised her—crooked, reluctant, but real. "It didn't end well. The dog got frosting in her ears."

That drew a soft laugh from Chan, low and brief, but fully genuine. The sound broke the tension between them like warm water poured into cracked porcelain—gentle and just enough to start closing the fissures. Beth felt her shoulders ease, if only slightly. The smallest part of her—too tired to fight anymore—let that laugh earn something close to trust.

"Thank you for taking care of her," she said, voice steady but edged with something deeper. Something raw.

Chan's smile gentled, touched by a quiet reverence that didn't need embellishment. "She means the world to me," he said simply. No decoration. No defensiveness. Just a truth, laid down plain.

Beth held his gaze, something quiet but unflinching settling between them. "She means the world to a lot of people."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The vending machine behind them emitted a final mechanical sigh, the whirring gears winding down into stillness. Their silence filled the space it left behind—not heavy, not strained, just... full.

"I'm sorry," Chan said after a beat, his voice low again, but earnest. "For what she's gone through. I can't imagine what it's like for you—seeing her like that. After everything."

Beth's breath left her in a slow, even exhale through her nose. The can in her hand had grown slick, damp, but she didn't move to wipe it away. "I've seen a lot of things," she answered, the words coming carefully, chosen one at a time. "But not like that. Not to her."

Chan's nod was slow, the corners of his mouth tight with unspoken agreement. "Yeah."

Another quiet moment passed between them. This one felt different. Not like a void needing to be filled, but like a ledge they were both standing on—the space between what had been and what couldn't be undone. The kind of silence that happened when both people understood the limits of what comfort could offer.

"She's tough," Chan murmured eventually, almost like he was saying it to himself. "But even the strongest people need anchors."

Beth studied him again, and this time there was no trace of suspicion in her gaze. He looked tired, yes—but not in the shallow, end-of-a-workday kind of way. It was deeper than that. The exhaustion of someone who had been holding the weight of someone else's pain without complaint. Someone who stayed even when it cost something.

"She has them," Beth said. "Alex is surrounded by people who love her. That matters."

Something in Chan's posture shifted—a subtle loosening of his shoulders, a faint release in the line of his jaw. "She's been fighting so hard," he said. "It helps knowing she's not doing it alone."

Beth gave a soft, knowing smile. "We make a good team when we're allowed to."

Chan's lips twitched, the hint of amusement dancing there for the briefest second. "I'm getting that impression."

Behind them, a door opened with a quiet click. A nurse emerged from a nearby room, clipboard in hand, her steps light and efficient. She glanced between them, offered a polite bow, and disappeared down the corridor. The hallway stilled again in her wake.

"Have you seen her today?" Beth asked, turning back to him.

"Not yet," Chan said, casting a glance down the hall in the direction of Alex's room. "I was going to stop by after work, but I ran late. Figured I'd sneak in a coffee and five minutes to breathe before walking in."

Beth nodded slowly. There was something in her face now that hadn't been there earlier—less suspicion, more understanding. "She'll be glad you came. Cassie's in there too—playing nurse. It's adorable and mildly chaotic."

That brought out a real smile from him, the kind that reached his eyes. "Sounds like just what she needs."

Beth stepped aside, gesturing toward the room with a small tilt of her head. "Come on, then. Might as well get the chaos firsthand."

Chan fell into step beside her, their footsteps falling into a quiet rhythm as they made their way back down the hall. And together, they walked toward the room where love—fractured, healing, exhausted—waited with open arms.

The door creaked softly as Beth nudged it open with her shoulder, her hand still curled loosely around the paper cup of vending machine coffee that had long since gone cold. The muted hallway light followed her inside, spilling in rectangles across the floor and pooling quietly at the foot of the bed like lamplight through half-drawn blinds. Chan stepped in behind her, his presence folding into the room without fanfare—quiet but grounded, like he'd been here a hundred times before, even if this moment was new.

Cassie was still perched beside Alex on the hospital bed, legs swinging in slow rhythm as she clutched a juice box in both hands like a prized relic. The bendable straw had been chewed slightly at the end, her fingers sticky with sugar and faintly tinted with whatever red dye the drink contained. On the television mounted to the corner of the ceiling, a cartoon played at half volume—something chaotic involving space rabbits, glitter explosions, and the kinds of improbable physics only a child's attention span could survive. The soft beeping of Alex's monitors formed a subtle rhythm beneath it all, the mechanical heartbeat of the room.

Elizabeth stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed loosely over her chest, the slope of her posture calm but observant. Her gaze drifted between her daughter and the screen, not quite watching either. Pride lingered at the edge of her features—quiet, restrained, but unmistakable. She didn't speak, but her presence anchored the space, lending it a sense of stillness that made everything else feel a little less fragile.

Beth moved back toward her chair, the one she'd vacated earlier, her gait slower now, mind still half caught in the residue of her hallway conversation. But she never quite made it to the seat.

Because Chan was already crossing the floor.

Alex's head turned toward the sound of his steps, and her eyes found him with the kind of precision that didn't require confirmation. Her entire expression shifted—not dramatically, but with a softness that reached all the way to her shoulders. Like something tight had finally unknotted.

"Oh," she breathed, the word exhaled in a tone that hovered between surprise and relief. "You two met."

Chan offered a small smile and closed the space between them with an easy, familiar stride—his movements unhurried but intent, like there was no version of the day where this reunion didn't happen. He set his coffee down gently beside the untouched tray of hospital soup and leaned in without hesitation, brushing his fingertips along her cheek in a barely-there caress before he kissed her.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't showy.

It was gentle.

Sure.

The kind of kiss that had nothing to prove and everything to affirm.

Alex tilted up into it without hesitation, her body easing toward him with a subtle shift that loosened something invisible in the room. When he pulled back, her eyes lingered on him—not needy, not possessive, just present, tracing the curve of his mouth like it was the only line in the room she still remembered by heart.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the cartoon soundtrack, but somehow clearer than anything else.

Chan's fingers curled around hers as he took her hand, their palms fitting together with the ease of repetition. "Hey," he echoed, just as quiet, just as full.

Cassie, who had been watching all this with great interest and very little subtlety, suddenly piped up with the kind of bluntness only a six-year-old could wield without shame. "Are you Auntie Andy's boyfriend?"

Chan blinked, visibly caught off guard by the tiny cross-examination launched from the middle of the hospital bed. His gaze dropped, drawn by the unwavering intensity of the child perched beside Alex—Cassie, holding court from her juice box throne like a pint-sized magistrate. Her wide, unblinking eyes were fixed on him with the seriousness of someone far older, the bendy straw of her drink clenched between her lips as if it might double as a lie detector. She wasn't suspicious, not exactly. She was assessing, her posture poised and confident, the kind of child who didn't yet know the meaning of hesitation. It was the calm scrutiny of a tiny monarch deciding whether this stranger might be worthy of the crown jewel of her world.

Alex barked a laugh, sudden and sharp, the sound pulling from her chest before she could brace for it. Her expression twisted with a grimace even as the laughter rang out—one hand lifting quickly to her ribs, fingers pressing against the healing bone with practiced instinct.

"Cassie, you can't just ask people that," she said, her voice somewhere between exasperated and affectionate, like a mother trying to scold and stifle a grin at the same time.

Cassie barely glanced at her, unconvinced and undeterred. "Why not?" she asked, tilting her head like it was the most logical follow-up in the world. "You kissed him."

Beth snorted into her sleeve, trying—failing—to suppress the laugh that surged up her throat. Her lips twitched helplessly as she caught Chan's startled glance across the room. His eyes flicked toward her, one brow arched in silent disbelief, his mouth already curling with amusement. The expression on his face hovered somewhere between is this real life? and should I be impressed or terrified?

Beth only shrugged, feigning innocence, though the mischief was unmistakable in her voice. "She's observant."

Chan let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head before crouching slightly—lowering himself until he was level with Cassie's scrutinizing stare. He rested his elbows on his knees, casual but sincere, and met her eyes without flinching. "Well then," he said, his voice dipped in mock solemnity, "yeah. I'm Alex's boyfriend."

Cassie narrowed her eyes even further, lips pursed in what could only be described as a skeptical squint. She studied him for a beat longer, weighing his words like she was cross-referencing them against some invisible set of standards. Then, with the formality of royalty bestowing knighthood, she thrust out her hand.

"Okay," she declared, her voice crisp and declarative. "But you have to be nice."

Chan grinned—wide now, genuine, the kind of smile that lit up his whole face—and reached out to shake her hand, his fingers gentle but confident as they wrapped around hers. "Deal," he said, tone warm. "Being nice is kind of my thing."

Beth snorted again, louder this time, folding her arms as she leaned back slightly in her chair. "We'll see about that."

From her place near the foot of the bed, Elizabeth raised one finely shaped brow, her expression unreadable for a breath before it softened into dry amusement. "I'm reserving judgment," she said mildly, "until I see if he can handle two meals a day of salted radish and boiled anchovies."

Chan visibly recoiled, nose wrinkling like a child biting into something unexpectedly sour. "Not my ideal breakfast," he said, the honesty in his tone tinged with humor, "but I'll make it work."

Alex leaned into his side just enough for her temple to rest against his arm, the motion quiet, nearly instinctive. Her voice was softer now, familiar in its teasing cadence. "He's already eaten worse," she said with a faint smirk. "I've seen his tour fridge."

Cassie, not to be outdone, reached over and poked Chan's elbow with one small finger, the gesture light but confident. "You're strong," she informed him solemnly. "Like a wrestler."

Chan turned to her, blinking in surprise. "I'll take that," he said with a chuckle, his mouth tugging into another amused smile.

Then the question came—small and simple, spoken with the same curiosity one might use when asking about tomorrow's weather or whether the moon was still out.

"Are you gonna marry her?"

Beth groaned instantly, dragging a hand down her face with a mix of mortification and affection. "Cassie," she sighed, half-laughing, half-dying inside. "Oh my God."

Alex made a sound somewhere between a moan and a plea for sedation, covering her face with both hands. "I'm going to need stronger pain meds," she muttered, her voice muffled but clear enough to hear the embarrassment beneath it.

Chan didn't laugh this time.

He didn't tease or dodge or deflect with charm.

He just looked at Alex again—really looked—and something in his expression shifted. The lightness in his eyes dimmed slightly, not in sadness, but in focus. Something anchored there, deep and sure.

His smile came slower now, like it had to travel a longer road to reach his face. But when it arrived, it carried a different weight. A kind of stillness. A kind of truth.

"If she'll have me," he said, voice low and steady, "one day, yeah. I'd like that."

The room stilled.

Not in shock. Not in any dramatic, gasping kind of way. No one froze or clutched their chest. No one uttered a breathless oh. But the atmosphere changed just the same.

It was more like a quiet recalibration—an invisible shift, subtle but undeniable, as though the very air in the room had realigned itself to accommodate something solid. Something true. The kind of moment that didn't require grand gestures because it wasn't grand. It was grounded. Honest. Irrevocable.

Even Cassie, in all her seven-year-old certainty, seemed to feel the shift. Her spine straightened ever so slightly, and the squint of suspicion in her eyes softened into something more contemplative. She tilted her head, curls bobbing gently with the motion, and gave a slow, deliberate nod—less approval and more acknowledgment. A ceremonial sealing of terms.

"Okay," she said after a beat. Her voice was small but clear. "But I still get to be flower girl."

Alex peeked out from behind her fingers, groaning with the long-suffering melodrama of someone who'd just realized they were outnumbered. "It's like you've all been conspiring."

Beth shifted her weight, arms still folded across her chest, one brow lifting with familiar precision. Her smile now was wide and unmistakably warm, but there was triumph stitched into the corners of it. "We have," she said simply. "It's been a group project."

Chan leaned in again, slow and unhurried, his body curling toward Alex like he didn't even need to think about it. He dipped his head, letting his lips brush the side of her temple in a kiss so gentle it felt more like punctuation than declaration. Then he rested his forehead there, just for a breath longer—anchoring her, grounding himself. When he spoke again, the words didn't travel far. They weren't meant to.

"You look better today."

The hush that followed wasn't awkward. It was reverent.

Alex's fingers reached instinctively for the hem of his sleeve, tugging there with the familiarity of someone who had done it a hundred times in her mind, even if only a few times in reality. Her voice was soft, nearly lost beneath the hum of the IV monitor and the whisper of distant footsteps in the hall.

"I feel... a little more like me."

For a moment, no one spoke. The television played on, shifting scenes with abrupt cartoon logic as a new program took over—something involving animated vegetables singing in four-part harmony. Cassie slurped the last of her juice box, then turned her attention to the screen without comment, her role in the interrogation evidently concluded.

Elizabeth slipped out quietly, murmuring something about checking on the nurses' station. She moved like a woman who understood when to stay and when to give space, her exit seamless and unobtrusive. The door clicked shut behind her.

The room—wounded and worn—held all of it. The laughter, the discomfort, the affection and the unanswered questions. It didn't rush to resolve anything. It just made space.

Beth cleared her throat softly and shifted forward in her seat, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs with casual precision. Her eyes landed squarely on Alex and Chan, and this time there was no teasing smile. Just a look that said: Alright. My turn.

"So how did this start? And why did I not hear about it going official?"

Her voice was calm, unhurried, but it carried weight—every word neatly clipped, her delivery practiced in the art of interrogation without overt accusation. She didn't have to raise her voice. She didn't even lean forward. The sheer force of her long history with Alex made the words land like they came stamped with a seal of maternal authority. It wasn't hostility. It was accountability—the kind that only came from someone who'd seen you through every emotional weather pattern and still packed snacks for the storm.

Alex sighed, long and theatrical. "Beth—"

"No, no, don't 'Beth' me," she interrupted, rising just slightly from her seat and pointing at them both with her unopened iced coffee like it was some ancient instrument of judgment. "You've been keeping secrets. Big ones. Fertilized embryo-level secrets."

Chan choked.

It was an involuntary noise, half-laugh and half-gasp, as he clapped a hand over his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle the rest. His eyes widened in panicked amusement. He looked to Alex like she might save him, but she was already collapsing against his shoulder, her face buried in his hoodie, the tips of her ears pink with mortification.

Beth, undeterred, kept going—not with cruelty, but with the relentless affection of someone determined to understand the timeline of the bombshell just dropped in her lap.

"I'm not mad. But I am deeply offended I had to find out through casual conversation that you're dating the man who looks like he could bench-press regret and charm a nun."

Alex mumbled something unintelligible into the folds of Chan's sweatshirt. Her fingers clutched his sleeve like a lifeline. Her voice, when it emerged again, was muffled but sincere. "I didn't mean to keep it from you. It just... happened fast."

Beth's brows lifted in unison. "Define 'fast,'" she said coolly, sinking back into the chair with the kind of practiced grace that only came from being professionally unimpressed. She crossed one leg over the other, settling in like a woman prepared to ask every single follow-up question without mercy or remorse.

Alex glanced sidelong at Chan, her expression unreadable for a breath, as though she were mentally weighing how much to let spill and how much to guard. Chan didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did and chose to brave it anyway. His hand rose instinctively to the back of his neck, fingers running through his hair in a familiar, sheepish arc—like a teenager who'd just been caught sneaking in after curfew by the one adult he knew wouldn't yell, but would ask all the right questions.

"I kissed her on her birthday," he admitted, voice low, the words tumbling out like he'd been bracing for the confession and hoping it wouldn't sting.

Beth squinted. Not dramatically. Just enough to signal the mental math already starting behind her eyes. "That was July."

Alex groaned before Beth even finished the sentence. Her whole body curled in on itself, face disappearing further into Chan's hoodie like she could physically erase the timeline. "You weren't supposed to do the math out loud."

Beth lifted her brows with mock offense, leaning back in her chair like a queen preparing her final judgment. "Oh, I'm absolutely doing the math out loud. July, Alex. That's five months ago. Which means you two have been dating since before Indonesia?"

Chan winced—subtle, but telling. It wasn't shame, exactly. Just the quiet cringe of someone who realized they'd stepped directly into the middle of a timeline audit. "We weren't official then," he said. "It was... slow."

Beth didn't even blink. "Slow? You fertilized embryos with her, Christopher. That's not slow. That's express lane intimacy."

Chan sputtered like someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt. "That wasn't— I mean, yes, but—"

"She's teasing," Alex mumbled from the safety of his hoodie, finally turning her face enough to shoot Beth a beleaguered glare. It might've landed better if she hadn't still been clutching Chan's arm like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. "Beth does this. Don't let her scare you."

"I'm not scared," Chan said, too fast. Then paused, reconsidered, and added with a sheepish shrug, "Okay, a little scared."

Beth tried to hold a stern expression, but her mouth betrayed her—one corner twitching upward with the effort not to smile. "Good. That means you're paying attention."

Cassie, still parked in her spot like a very small but intensely invested spectator, looked between all of them with wide eyes. Her juice box was still clutched firmly in both hands like a courtroom prop. "What's 'fertilized' mean?" she asked, head cocked in honest curiosity.

Alex's entire posture went ramrod straight. "Nothing! It's a gardening term!"

Beth snorted so hard she nearly aspirated coffee, doubling forward with a choked laugh that echoed off the tiled floor.

Chan didn't bolt. To his credit, he just laughed under his breath, shaking his head slightly like he couldn't believe he was still upright after all of that. When he glanced at Beth again, there was something new in his eyes—half amusement, half respect. "You really are the big sister, huh?"

Beth gave a little nod, raising her chin just enough to confirm the title. "And I'm very good at it. I come with judgment, affection, and thinly veiled threats, all in one handy package."

Chan grinned—small but sincere, a smile shaped by something deeper than charm. "I can see why she missed you."

The words landed like a warm weight across Beth's chest. Not heavy. Just full. Her throat tightened a little before she managed to clear it. "So... why now? Why not tell me? What were you waiting for, a dramatic hospital reveal?"

Alex looked sheepish, caught somewhere between affection and guilt. "Honestly? We didn't know how serious it was going to get. And then everything happened so fast."

Chan's voice was quiet as he added, "We didn't want to say anything until we were sure."

Beth held his gaze a moment longer—measuring, not doubting. Then she sighed and leaned back, her posture relaxing as the tension gave way to tired affection. "Okay. That's fair. But next time—maybe loop me in before I walk into a hospital room and find out my best friend has made embryos with a man I've never met."

Alex groaned again, dragging her hand down her face. "Never letting you near my uterus again, I swear."

Beth raised her coffee in a mock-toast. "Too late. I have visitation rights now."

Chan just laughed, eyes crinkling as he looked down at Alex with a kind of quiet wonder that didn't need to be announced. There was something in the way he watched her, in the way his fingers remained loosely laced with hers even as the chaos spun around them, that suggested permanence—not in the flashy, performative way some people showed up, but in the way that said: I will keep showing up.

Cassie chose that moment to finish her juice box with a triumphant slurp that echoed louder than seemed possible for such a small drink. She held it aloft like a trophy. "Are we done talking now? I wanna show him my stickers."

Alex kissed the top of her head, her voice soft and affectionate. "Yes, bug. We're done."

Beth watched as Chan shifted to make room for Cassie beside him, the movement effortless. His hand never fully left Alex's, even as he leaned slightly to accept a crumpled sheet of holographic dinosaurs from Cassie's backpack. It wasn't just sweet. It was steady. Present.

And for the first time in a very long while, Beth felt something in her chest that wasn't warning or grief or fatigue.

She felt... reassured.