REMI'S POV
I didn't ask him.
Not that night. Not Friday. Not over the weekend when we established the first rhythms of living together — his coffee, my tea, the seventeen-setting stove neither of us fully understood, the kitchen island that became the natural center of everything. I watched him. I was already good at watching him; it was most of what the job required. But now I was watching for something specific.
Three years. The text had said three years.
Three years before the baby. Before the interview. Before The Apex bar and the tequila and the terrible pink dress.
I was twenty-one three years ago. Working at The Sunrise Diner. Living in the studio apartment with the broken elevator. Completely unremarkable to anyone who didn't already know me, and Flynn's pack certainly didn't
