In their perfect world

"Are you sure you're okay?"

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Very. I just need a warm bath, that's all." That was a lie. One he didn't believe.

Zayne watched me for a second longer, then nodded and picked Zia up in his arms. Zeal had already darted back inside.

"Are you okay, Mommy?" Zia asked, her little hands curling around my sleeve.

I kissed her forehead. "I'm feeling amazing," I said, making my voice as animated as possible.

Zayne squinted at me like he wanted to call me out, but he didn't. Instead, he shifted Zia's weight in his arms and said, "Take all the time you need. We'll be right here."

"Thank you," I whispered.

I turned and walked to my room, the sound of the front door closing behind me feeling far too loud.

As soon as I locked the door, I stood still for a long moment.

Laurel was right.

I didn't belong here.

The walls were too tall. The floors too polished. Even the air felt curated. I looked around— at the carefully chosen decor, the soft lighting, the closet full of clothes I hadn't picked. Everything was pristine. Nothing like me.

I walked to the box I hadn't unpacked yet and pulled out a simple white tee and a pair of shorts. The familiarity of them made something twist in my chest.

Fear gripped me tighter than ever and my hands were shaking.

In the bathroom, the light was soft and golden. A new loofah. A bar of soap that smelled like sandalwood. I moved in slow motion, lathering shampoo into my hair, scrubbing my skin like I could wash the doubt off. I rinsed, dried, then just sat down under the still-warm stream of water, burying my face into my knees. And I cried.

Not pretty, quiet tears. No. These were gut-wrenching sobs. The kind that left your chest raw.

I cried for myself.

For the girl who'd worked so hard to keep everything together. For the mother who was scared she might never be enough. For the daughter who hadn't heard from her own mother in years.

I cried because Emily wasn't here. Because I couldn't call her and say, I don't think I'm ready for this.

After a while, I peeled myself off the tiles, wrapped a robe around my damp body, and stepped out. My reflection in the mirror didn't lie— red-rimmed eyes, swollen lids, blotchy cheeks. I reached for a thick pair of glasses I hadn't worn in months. It didn't help much, but it was something.

I changed into the tee and shorts, then made my way toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of laughter and the smell of something rich and savory.

There they were.

Zeal and Zia in matching aprons, flour in their hair and all over the counter. Zayne had a larger apron tied neatly over his shirt, a spoon in one hand and a smug grin on his face.

"What are you guys up to?" I asked, lifting my voice with excitement.

Zayne looked at me, his eyes flicking to mine. He knew. He absolutely knew I'd been crying but he didn't say a word.

"Dinner," he said simply, still smiling.

"You can cook?" I blinked at the pot of stew bubbling on the stove. The smell alone made my stomach growl in appreciation.

"I have a few tricks up my sleeve." He winked, then tossed me an apron. "Join us."

I caught it, grinning despite myself, but fumbled with the straps. Before I could figure it out, Zayne was behind me.

"Here," he said, his voice low. His fingers worked fast, looping the strap behind my neck, then tightening it at the waist.

The closeness sent goosebumps along my arms. I closed my eyes. His hands were warm and comforting.

"There we go," he murmured, then gave me a gentle tap on the back like it was nothing.

But it wasn't. Not to me.

We chopped vegetables side by side. Zeal tried to sneak extra salt into the pot. Zia taste-tested everything like a judge on a cooking show. Zayne's laugh was soft and contagious, and for a moment, the kitchen felt like home.

It was easy to pretend.

But even as I stirred the stew and let Zia sprinkle spices in with a proud little hum, the fear hadn't left. It had only tucked itself beneath the surface.

I kept thinking about Laurel's words. About Charlotte. About his grandmother.

What if they never accepted me?

Worse... what if they never accepted the twins?

What if they saw my babies as less-than, as intruders in their perfect little world? What if they smiled to their faces and judged them behind closed doors?

What if they hurt them, the way people hurt me?

I swallowed hard and reached for a ladle. My hand trembled slightly.

"You okay?" Zayne asked under his breath.

I nodded and smiled. "Yeah..."

Again, the lie. Again, he let it pass.

Dinner was served on the wide kitchen island. Zeal insisted we all hold hands before eating because "that's what families do in movies." So we did. Zayne squeezed mine gently. I squeezed back.

The stew was surprisingly good.

Zayne helped feed Zia, who kept missing her spoon. Zeal sat in my lap, despite being perfectly capable of sitting on his own. Their laughter echoed, and for a moment, I allowed myself to lean into it.

Allowed myself to imagine this could last.

Even if a voice in the back of my head whispered that peace like this was always too fragile.

After dinner, the kids were covered in stew stains and sleepy smiles. Zeal yawned mid-sentence and leaned against Zayne's shoulder while Zia asked if she could wear her apron to bed.

"Not this time, sweetheart," I said, gently tugging it off her. She pouted but didn't argue.

We guided them upstairs, helped them into pajamas, brushed their little teeth, and listened to two dramatically off-key lullabies that Zeal insisted we join in on. They curled up beside each other under their covers, Zia clutching her stuffed bunny, Zeal holding the corner of Zayne's shirt as long as he could.

"I like your cooking," Zia mumbled, half-asleep.

"Thanks, chef," Zayne whispered, brushing her hair back.

We stood there a little while longer, watching their breathing slow, watching them melt into sleep.

When we finally stepped out and closed the door softly behind us, I leaned against the hallway wall for a second. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding myself until now.

Zayne turned to me. "Want a drink?"