The engine noise faded.
The gravel settled.
The world outside went quiet again.
Briar stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the empty driveway.
“Watch your back.”
The words didn’t feel like a threat.
They felt like prophecy.
She closed the door gently.
No slamming. No shaking hands.
Just a soft click.
Devon was still asleep.
On his side. One arm stretched across the mattress where she had been. Breathing slow. Peaceful.
Peaceful.
Briar looked at him for a long time.
This man had two pregnant women. Two homes. Two versions of himself.
And somehow he was the only one sleeping.
She walked into the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Let the water run hotter than necessary.
When she came back out, he hadn’t moved.
She didn’t wake him.
Didn’t confront him. Didn’t ask about the second pregnancy. Didn’t demand answers.
Instead, she picked up the half-folded baby clothes from the dresser.
Finished folding them.
Set them gently into the drawer.
The baby kicked again.
Strong.
Present.
Real.
Briar placed her hand over her stomach and exhaled slowly.
“Not us,” she whispered. “We’re not doing this.”
She crawled back into bed — but this time, she faced the opposite direction.
Not touching him.
Not leaning back.
Just existing on her side of the mattress.
He shifted in his sleep and instinctively moved closer.
She didn’t stop him.
But she didn’t respond either.
Because this?
This wasn’t forgiveness.
This was observation.
She was watching.
Learning.
And for the first time since 3:07 a.m., she wasn’t hoping he would choose her.
She was deciding whether she would choose him.
He slept.
Briar didn’t.
And sometimes, that’s the moment a woman stops being in love —
And starts being done.
