I did not answer her at first, because my body seemed to understand before my pride did.
The room tilted around me, slowly, as if the floor had become water beneath my bare feet.
Lucie’s hand remained pressed against her belly, fingers spread wide, as though she could hold everything inside by force.
I saw the phone on the nightstand, screen down, the charging cable pulled halfway from the wall.
Beside it, a glass of water had fallen over, explaining one stain, but not the fear in her eyes.
“Adrien,” she whispered again, and this time my name sounded less like a call than a plea.
I moved then, clumsy and late, kneeling beside the bed with shame already burning behind my eyes.
Her skin was cold when I touched her wrist, and that coldness frightened me more than the wet sheets.
“How long?” I asked, though my voice came out rough, almost like someone else’s.
She blinked at me, trying to focus, trying to make words pass through the pain.
“Since ten,” she said. “Maybe before. I thought it was cramps. Then I tried calling you.”
