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He bends and kisses me.

I expect something quick. Practical. A hospital kiss. But his hand comes to the side of my face, and for a moment he kisses me like he hasn’t decided how to leave yet. It’s slow enough to make my chest ache and brief enough to be unfair. When he pulls back, I’m annoyed to discover that my eyes are hot.

Pregnancy. Obviously.

“If the nausea gets worse, call me,” he says.

“Not text?”

“Call.”

“Wow. Escalation.”

“Maggie.”

“I’ll call.”

“And tell Nate soon.”

My stomach tightens, but not from nausea. “I know.”

He watches me long enough to make sure I mean it. Then he nods once.

At the door, he turns back. “Lock it.”

“Bossy.”

“Yes.”

He leaves before I can think of something clever enough to keep him there.

I stand there for one second longer than necessary, watching him walk toward the elevator in yesterday’s clothes with his coat over one arm and his phone already in his hand. He looks completely put together, which is rude, considering I’m standing barefoot in his sweater with bad eggs cooling on my table and several questionable decisions still warm in my memory.

The elevator dings. Dalton steps inside. I start to close the door.

Then I see Petra. She’s standing near the stairwell, one hand on the strap of her bag, still as a very expensive statue.

My whole body forgets how to function. For one awful second, I just stare at her through the gap in the door, hoping, stupidly, that maybe she’s not Petra. Maybe she’s a different tall, polished, terrifying woman with perfect hair and the emotional temperature of a contract clause.

No such luck.

Her eyes move from me to the elevator. The doors have already closed. That doesn’t help.

“Ms. Hanes,” she says.

My hand tightens around the door. “Petra.” My voice comes out too bright, which is my first mistake. “Hi. Good morning.”

She looks at me. Then at Dalton’s sweater on my body. Then back at my face.

I consider dying. Not dramatically. Just practically. Quietly. Somewhere nearby.

“Did I see Dr. Price?” she asks. There is no accusation in her tone. She asks it as if she’s confirming whether the pharmacy delivered prenatal vitamins.

I grip the edge of the door and try to remember how normal people stand. “He came by to check up on me,” I say. The lie is not fully a lie. This is unhelpful, because technically true lies always make me sound guiltier.

“I was sick yesterday,” I add, because apparently my brain has decided more words will save me. “After the meeting. So he checked in.”

Petra’s expression doesn’t change. “He’s a good doctor,” she says simply, and walks inside.