The steam off Claire’s mug thinned into the cold air of the kitchen, vanishing before it reached the tin ceiling. Outside, the snow was settling along the black fire escapes of Cortelyou Road, softening the sharp edges of brick and rusted iron.

Adrian did not immediately pull his hand back from the table. His fingers remained curled against the oilcloth where her stomach had been just seconds before, the warmth of the dark wool sweater still lingering on his calloused skin. His chest rose and fell in a slow, jagged cadence, every breath rattling faintly against the silence of the sixth-floor apartment.

“Nine weeks,” he said, his voice scraped raw, barely louder than the clanking radiator.

“Eight and a half, according to the ultrasound on Wednesday,” Claire replied. She didn’t look at him; she looked down into the amber circle of her tea. Her voice was steady, but her knuckles were tight against the ceramic mug. “Dr. Chen says the baby is measuring slightly small, but the heartbeat is strong. One hundred and forty-two beats a minute.”

Adrian swallowed hard. He looked at her face—the hollow beneath her cheekbones that hadn't been there in October, the faint purplish smudges under her eyes, the simple silver stud in her ear that was the only piece of jewelry she hadn't left behind on the dresser in Brooklyn Heights.

“You’ve been doing this alone,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a confession of his own absence, heavy with the realization of sixty-three days spent in an empty room on Albemarle Road, drinking bitter diner coffee and believing he was being noble by staying away.

“Mrs. Gable from 4B walked me down the stairs when the ice was bad last week,” Claire said quietly. “And the corner grocer carries the milk up to the third landing if he sees me coming back from the train. People are decent, Adrian. You don’t need an empire to buy a gallon of milk.”

The mention of the empire made Adrian flinch. The harbors were gone, the berths liquidated by the bankruptcy court to satisfy creditors who had circled his family like gulls over a trawler. But the reflex of pride died quickly in his throat.

“I’m not talking about an empire,” Adrian said, leaning forward, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that bordered on desperation. “I’m talking about heat. I’m talking about six flights of stairs with groceries. You shouldn't be carrying laundry down to the basement.”

“I manage.”

“You shouldn't have to manage.” He stood up so abruptly his wooden chair scraped across the linoleum, a harsh, grating sound. He walked to the window, his broad back rigid beneath his frayed wool coat, staring down at the muffled street. “If something happens—if you go into labor in the middle of the night—there’s no elevator, Claire. A cab won't even come down this block during a blizzard.”

“I’ve lived in this city all my life, Adrian,” she said, her voice dropping into that familiar, quiet resolve he had once mistaken for docility. “I survived the lawyers. I survived the depositions. I will survive a flight of stairs.”

Adrian turned around, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “You didn't put my name on the intake form at the clinic.”

Claire paused, the mug halfway to her lips. She set it down carefully, without a sound.

“When you signed the agreement on Court Street,” she said, looking straight into his eyes for the first time since she had guided his hand to her stomach, “you said you wanted me to have a clean break. You said the best thing you could give me was a life that didn't smell like salt water and diesel fuel. I gave you what you asked for.”

“I didn't know about this,” he whispered.

“Neither did I,” Claire said softly. “Not until four days after the judge stamped the decree.”

Before Adrian could answer, the sharp buzz of the intercom on the kitchen wall cut through the room, loud and violent in the tight space.