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Neither does he.

We just—look at each other. He looks sharper in person than the business picture of him that I had stared at a thousand times on my phone last night.

And then he says it.

Soft.

Certain.

“Stella.”

My name sounds different in his mouth.

Like it belongs there.

I let out a slow breath.

“Emmanuel.”

NotDad.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

We don’t rush that.

A flicker passes through his eyes.

Approval.

Respect.

Like I just made the correct move in a game I didn’t know we were playing.

I lift my coffee slightly, half-smirking.

“This has my DNA on it,” I say. “You want it? Save us both the time.”

For a second—he just looks at me. Then—the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a full smile. But something close.

“I don’t need proof,” he says. His gaze sharpens slightly. “I’ve already seen enough.”

That lands.

Deep.

Because I know what he means.

I saw it too.

In the mirror of his face.

He gestures lightly toward the street.

“There’s a car.”

“There always is,” I mutter.