I don't answer Harley's message that night.
Or the next morning.
By afternoon, I have convinced myself that silence is easier.
Not better. Not kinder. Just easier.
Samuel leaves early for the hospital after making sure I eat a little breakfast. He doesn't mention Harley again. He doesn't bring up what he confessed the night before either, and somehow that makes it feel even heavier.
Like the words are still there.
Waiting.
I spend most of the morning sitting by the window, wrapped in a cardigan even though the room isn't cold. The city moves outside like nothing has changed. Cars pass below. People walk along the pavement. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks, and someone laughs.
Life continues.
Mine feels suspended.
My hand rests over my stomach.
I still can't fully believe it.
A baby.
I say the word silently in my mind, and something inside me aches.
Not because I don't want it.
Because I don't know how to want anything without being afraid.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze.
For one foolish second, I think it might be Samuel. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe he came back because he worried.
But deep down, before I even stand, I know.
My body knows.
My heart knows.
Harley.
The bell rings again.
I don't move.
Then my phone lights up on the coffee table.
I know you're inside. Please open the door.
My breath catches.
I stare at the message until the words blur.
A third ring.
Something in me snaps.
I cross the room before I can change my mind and open the door.
Harley stands on the other side.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
He looks terrible.
Not in the way that means messy or careless. Harley never looks careless. His coat is still perfectly worn, his hair still neat, his posture still straight.
But his eyes—
His eyes are exhausted.
The sharpness I'm used to is gone, replaced by something raw and sleepless.
"Sophie," he says.
My name sounds like it hurts him.
I tighten my grip on the door. "Why are you here?"
His gaze moves over my face quickly, like he's checking whether I'm okay. Then it drops for half a second toward my stomach before returning to my eyes.
That tiny movement makes my chest tighten.
"You wouldn't answer me," he says.
"So you came here?"
"Yes."
The honesty in his voice unsettles me.
I look away. "You shouldn't have."
"I know."
But he doesn't leave.
Of course he doesn't.
Harley has always been like that. Silent until he decides not to be. Distant until he chooses to stand directly in front of me and make breathing impossible.
"I need to talk to you," he says.
My throat tightens. "I'm not ready."
"I know," he repeats, softer this time. "But this can't wait anymore."
A cold feeling moves through me.
"What can't wait?"
He doesn't answer right away.
That silence tells me everything before his words do.
My fingers slowly loosen from the door.
Harley's jaw tightens. "Sophie… there's something I should have told you sooner."
The hallway seems to narrow around us.
I stare at him.
"No," I whisper.
His expression breaks slightly.
Just slightly.
But enough.
"No," I say again, stronger this time, even though my voice shakes. "Don't say it like that."
"Sophie—"
"Don't." My chest rises too fast. "Don't stand there and say there's something you should have told me sooner. Not now. Not after everything."
His face pales.
"I'm sorry."
The words hit me wrong.
Too small.
Too late.
I step back from the doorway, not because I'm inviting him in, but because I suddenly can't stand being so close to him.
Harley takes it as permission anyway.
He enters slowly, closing the door behind him.
The sound feels final.
I wrap my arms around myself. "Say it."
He turns to face me.
But now that we're inside, now that there are no strangers passing in the hall, he looks even more afraid.
Harley Huang.
Afraid.
I never thought I would see it so clearly.
"The night in Paris," he begins.
My stomach drops.
The room tilts.
I shake my head once, almost violently. "No."
His eyes close briefly.
"It was me," he says.
The words are quiet.
But they destroy everything.
I stare at him.
For a moment, I don't understand.
Not because the words are unclear.
Because my mind refuses to let them in.
"It was…" I swallow, but my throat feels dry. "What do you mean, it was you?"
Harley takes one step toward me.
I take one step back.
He stops immediately.
"That night," he says, voice low, careful. "The night you couldn't remember clearly. The night you thought—"
"Don't." My voice cracks. "Don't tell me what I thought."
Pain flashes across his face.
"You were drunk," he says. "You were upset. I brought you back. You were crying, and you kept saying you didn't want to be alone."
I press a hand against my chest.
Not detailed images.
Not memories.
Just fragments.
Warm hands.
A familiar voice.
The feeling of being held.
Waking up confused.
Harley watching me like he wanted to say something and couldn't.
My breathing turns uneven.
"You knew?" I whisper.
His silence answers first.
Then, "Yes."
A sound escapes me—half laugh, half sob.
"You knew."
"Sophie—"
"You knew this whole time?"
His eyes shine, but he doesn't look away.
"Yes."
The room goes impossibly still.
I feel something inside me fall.
"You let me be confused," I say slowly. "You let me sit with that fear. You let me wonder what happened."
"I didn't know how to tell you."
The sentence is so fragile.
So human.
So useless.
"You didn't know how?" I repeat.
My voice sounds distant now, like it belongs to someone else.
Harley's jaw clenches. "I was afraid."
I stare at him.
"Afraid of what?"
"Of losing you."
The answer comes fast.
Too fast.
Like it has been living inside him for too long.
My eyes burn. "So you let me lose myself instead?"
His face crumples slightly.
"Sophie, no."
"Yes," I whisper. "That's what you did."
He moves closer, then stops again when I flinch.
That flinch hurts both of us.
I see it in his face.
But I can't help it.
Everything about him suddenly feels familiar and foreign at the same time.
The man I loved.
The man I trusted.
The man who held the truth while I drowned in questions.
"How could you?" I ask.
It comes out smaller than I wanted.
Harley looks shattered.
"I thought if I told you right away, you would hate me."
I laugh once, bitter and broken. "And now?"
He swallows.
"I think you might hate me more."
The tears spill before I can stop them.
I hate that he's right.
I hate that I don't know if I hate him.
I hate that beneath the anger, my heart still hurts for him.
"You should have told me," I say.
"I know."
"No, Harley." My voice rises. "You don't get to just say you know. You don't get to stand there looking sorry like that fixes anything."
"I'm not trying to fix it."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
He looks at me, and the answer is in his eyes before he says it.
"I'm trying to stop lying."
That steals some of the air from the room.
He takes a slow breath.
"I'm not here to ask you to forgive me," he says. "I don't deserve that right now. I'm not here to make excuses either."
I wipe my cheeks quickly, angry at the tears.
"Then why are you here?"
His gaze lowers again.
This time, to my stomach.
Then back to my face.
"Because you shouldn't have to carry this alone."
A sharp ache cuts through me.
"Don't," I say.
His brows pull together. "Don't what?"
"Don't use the baby to make yourself sound noble."
The words hit him hard.
I know they do.
But I don't take them back.
Harley's eyes darken with pain, but his voice stays quiet.
"I'm not."
"You hid the truth until I got pregnant."
"I didn't know you were pregnant when I hid it."
"But you hid it."
"Yes."
The admission lands between us again.
No defense.
No excuse.
Just yes.
And somehow that makes me angrier.
Because part of me wants him to fight. To explain. To say something I can tear apart.
But Harley just stands there and takes it.
"I remembered pieces," I say slowly. "I remembered feeling safe."
His face twists.
"That was the worst part," I whisper. "Because I didn't know why."
Harley's eyes fill.
"I'm sorry."
I shake my head, backing away until I hit the edge of the sofa.
"You don't get to be sorry enough for this."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
His mouth closes.
Silence stretches.
Then he says, barely audible, "I love you."
My entire body stills.
I close my eyes.
Of all the things he could have said, that is the cruelest.
Because I know.
I know he loves me.
That has always been the problem.
His love has never felt small.
It has felt consuming. Protective. Patient. Painful.
And now it feels dangerous.
"You don't get to say that right now," I whisper.
"I know."
My eyes snap open.
Harley looks like the words cost him everything.
"I know," he repeats, voice breaking. "But it's still true."
My chest aches so badly I almost can't stand.
He steps closer, slowly, carefully. "I loved you before you left. I loved you while you were gone. I loved you when you came back and looked at me like I was a stranger. I loved you in Paris. I loved you even when I was angry enough to pretend I didn't."
Tears blur my vision again.
"Stop."
"I can't," he says, and for the first time, his voice breaks fully. "I can't keep pretending that silence protects you. It only protects me. And I'm done protecting myself at your expense."
I look away, trembling.
The truth is too much.
His truth.
My truth.
The baby.
Samuel.
Everything.
"I need you to leave," I say.
The words come out flat.
Harley freezes.
For a moment, I think he will refuse.
The old Harley might have. The Harley who thought staying meant loving harder.
But this Harley—
this broken, exhausted Harley—
nods once.
Slowly.
"Okay."
That hurts more than I expect.
He walks to the door, but before he opens it, he stops.
His hand rests on the handle.
"I won't disappear," he says quietly. "Not from you. Not from the baby. But I'll give you space."
I don't answer.
Because if I speak, I might break.
He opens the door.
Then pauses again.
"Sophie."
I close my eyes.
"What?"
His voice is almost a whisper.
"I should have trusted you with the truth."
The door closes behind him.
And the moment he's gone, my legs give out.
I sink to the floor, one hand pressed over my mouth, the other over my stomach.
The silence returns.
But this time, it is not empty.
It is full of him.
Full of everything I now know.
Full of the truth I thought I wanted.
And the pain I wasn't ready for.