Chapter 4 - Morning Inspection
The knock came at seven-fifteen, sharp and double-rapped against the grain of my front door, shaking the latch just enough to rattle the cheap chain lock. I hadn't even finished boiling water for oatmeal. Standing in the drafty galley kitchen of my apartment, wrapped in an oversized knit cardigan over my pajamas, I stared at the wood paneling as the rapping repeated.
When I pulled the door open, Adrian was standing there in his dark wool double-coated armor from the hospital yesterday, though he had discarded the heavy coat for a charcoal crewneck sweater that fit his shoulders with quiet precision. He wasn't empty-handed. He held two brown canvas grocery bags in one arm and a stack of thick, hardbound medical reference texts tucked beneath the other.
"Adrian," I said, my voice dry from sleep and resistance. "It's barely past seven."
"You need iron," he said, stepping past me into the narrow entryway without waiting for an invitation, his shoes clicking lightly against the linoleum. "And leafy greens. The diner eggs weren't enough yesterday, and I checked your cupboards last night before I left. You're running on dry air and toast."
"You didn't check my cupboards," I said, closing the door and crossing my arms tightly over the rising curve of my abdomen, where the twins shifted in quiet, morning protest against the sudden noise. "You dropped my keys on the counter and walked out."
"I looked while I washed the glass you left by the sink." He set the heavy bags down on the small laminate kitchen table with a dull thud. The stack of books slid off the top, revealing titles on maternal-fetal medicine, high-risk twin gestation, and nutritional guidelines for the second trimester. He began unloading the bags with methodical efficiency—clamshell containers of organic spinach, cartons of pasture-raised eggs, berries, citrus, and tall plastic tubs of prenatal vitamins.
"You can't just move in, Adrian," I said, watching a tub of calcium supplements land beside my lone coffee mug. "I've managed this for sixteen weeks. I bought groceries yesterday afternoon. I have a budget."
"Your budget doesn't include twenty-four-week viability complications if you don't start retaining protein," he said, turning around. His dark wavy hair was slightly mussed from the damp morning air, and the trimmed beard shadowed a jawline that looked harder in the daylight than it had under the stark fluorescents of the hospital. His dark eyes were fixed on mine, clear and unyielding. "I've spent the last fourteen hours reading up on what happens when a twin pregnancy isn't monitored properly. The sheer caloric load alone—"
"Stop it." I stepped up to the edge of the kitchen table, my breathing shallow. "Stop treating me like a diagnostic chart or a project you can audit. I'm not some oversight in your portfolio that you need to fix because your conscience is pricking you."
Adrian froze, a carton of blueberries still in his hand. The silence in the small apartment stretched tight, filled only by the low hum of the ancient refrigerator in the corner. His gaze dropped from my face down to my midsection, lingering on the light blue cotton of my cardigan before rising slowly back to meet my eyes. The color drained slightly from his cheeks, leaving him looking tired—not the polished executive who managed skyscrapers, but a man who had spent a sleepless night staring at a ceiling fan, wrestling with numbers and timelines that didn't add up until they hit him all at once.
"It's not my conscience, Claire," he said quietly, his voice losing its sharp executive edge. He set the berries down, his fingers lingering on the cardboard rim. "It's fear. If I'd stayed away six more months—if you hadn't ended up in that hallway—you would have carried them to term without a single person making sure you ate a vegetable or rested your back."
"I have neighbors," I lied, though Mrs. Gable downstairs mostly just knocked to complain about my radio.
"You were alone," he said, throwing the words back gently, using the exact phrase from the hospital. "You're sick? And you came alone? You said it yourself yesterday morning—or rather, I did, and you let me walk right past the truth." He took a half-step closer, stopping just short of touching me. "My father was gone before I could walk, and my mother didn't look at me twice until I could sign my name on a board resolution. I spent my whole life surrounded by people who treated family like a quarterly filing. I am not doing that to these kids. And I am not doing it to you."
The intensity in his voice wasn't angry; it was heavy, weighted with a generational panic I hadn't expected to find beneath his polished exterior. I let out a long, slow breath, my shoulders dropping an inch as the fight bled out of me, leaving only the dull, bone-deep exhaustion of the last four months.
"I'm scared too, Adrian," I murmured, looking down at the stack of medical books on my table. "Every time I feel them move, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong. Doing it by myself felt safer because I only had myself to blame if it fell apart."
"It's not going to fall apart," he said, his hand finally reaching out, hovering for a fraction of a second before his palm rested flat and warm against the small of my back, guiding me toward the chair. "Sit down. Let me make the oatmeal."
I let him pull the chair out. I sat, watching him fumble slightly with the small saucepan under the faucet—a man who clearly hadn't boiled oats in a decade, yet was determined to get the water-to-grain ratio right.
"All right," I said after a moment, watching him measure out cinnamon from a little glass jar I'd forgotten I even owned. "You can stay for breakfast. And you can buy the spinach."
Adrian glanced back over his shoulder, a small, cautious relief touching the corners of his mouth. "And the doctor's appointment next week?"
"I'll drive," I said, holding up a hand before he could argue. "I will drive my own car, and you can follow me in yours like a nervous escort. But you are parking in the visitor lot, and you are not bribing the receptionist."
May you like
He turned back to the stove, turning the burner dial with care. "No bribes," he agreed, though the slight twitch in his jaw suggested he was already planning how to upgrade my entire obstetrics network. "Just an escort."
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