ADRIAN'S P.O.V.
It had been two weeks. Two agonizing weeks since Teresa, in that quiet, graceful way of hers, had asked me—no, gently requested me—to "respect her personal space." Her words had been polite, almost delicate, and yet they'd cut right through me. And here I was now, a helpless fool, standing in my dimly lit living room, carefully assembling a gift basket filled with more prenatal vitamins, free pretty dresses and sweaters—all thoughtful, subtle things that might ease her days. The absurdity of it all hit me like a cold wave; hovering at the edges of her life, present but unseen, giving without being able to show myself. It was maddening, like trying to catch smoke, but somehow, I couldn't stop.
I ran my fingers over the large ribbon I'd smoothed onto the basket, adjusting it over and over as if it was some delicate vase, when Brian walked in. His expression was tense, something unsettled simmering behind his eyes.
