The living room glowed softly under the dim wall sconces. Oliver checked in, asking how Patricia was doing tonight, and Johns filled him in without missing a detail.
“She throw up at all?”
“No, but dinner was pretty spicy. Marian told her to go easy on it. She wasn’t thrilled.”
Oliver pressed his lips together, brow tight, and nodded. “I’m going upstairs.”
“There’s some congee waiting in the kitchen. Want some?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.” He needed to see Patricia. He’d been thinking about her since the afternoon, but work had dragged on until late. Guilt sat heavy in his chest. She was in her first trimester, feeling awful, and here he was, barely around. Eating was the last thing on his mind.
Up in the master bedroom, a single lamp glowed dimly in the sitting area. The soft light made everything feel a little warmer. He followed it toward their room.
As soon as he pushed open the double doors, he heard rustling from the bed. Patricia pulled the covers up, trying to disappear. She clicked off her phone and slipped it under her pillow, quick as a kid hiding from her parents.
Oliver couldn’t help but smile, watching her. “You’re still awake?”
“What are you doing?”
He paused by the bed, smoothed his pants, and crouched down. His long fingers gently tugged the blanket back, just enough to poke her nose, like he was teasing a kitten.
The second he touched her, Patricia’s eyes snapped open. She tossed the covers aside so fast that Oliver flinched, suddenly worried he’d done something wrong.
“What’s up?” he asked.



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