Chapter 26

Lauren's POV

I stood frozen in the doorway, my arms still awkwardly wrapped around Alexander as he leaned against me. His weight pressed into me, heavy and unyielding, a stark reminder of just how much trouble he was.

Alright. I can’t call anyone. Someone smashed my phone.

My blood began to boil. I was half tempted to drop him to the stairs on my stoop, let him sleep on the stones till morning. He deserved that and more. The jerk.

Then, the memory hit me like a jolt: Alexander holding me in the elevator, his arms strong and steady, having been the last thing I saw before I blacked out. His face, streaked with concern and fear as he held me in the operating room, having come to my rescue.

I owed him my life.

Sort of.

And now here he was, vulnerable and drunk, slumped against me like a fallen giant.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re impossible,” I muttered under my breath.

I guess… I didn’t really have a choice. It’s not like the couch was taken, or that he could drive out of here anyways.

Alexander stirred at the sound of my voice, his head tilting just enough for me to catch the faint shadow of a smirk. “Always knew you couldn’t stay mad at me,” he slurred, his words thick and uneven.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snapped. I tightened my grip around his waist, half-dragging, half-guiding him inside.

He stumbled as we crossed the threshold, his feet unsteady on the hardwood floor. “Where are we going?” he mumbled, his voice low and hoarse.

“To the couch,” I replied, gritting my teeth as I maneuvered him toward the living room. “And if you’re lucky, I won’t throw you out in the middle of the night.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rasping in his chest. “You’re still so bossy.”

“And you’re still an idiot,” I shot back, though my voice lacked its usual fire.

By the time we reached the couch, my arms were trembling from the effort of holding him up. I eased him down as gently as I could manage, and he sank into the cushions with a heavy sigh. His head lolled back, his dark hair falling across his forehead in messy waves.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at him. Even in his current state—his face pale, his eyes heavy-lidded—he was still Alexander. The sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath—it was all too familiar, too dangerous.

I shook myself, forcing my thoughts back to the present. “Stay here,” I said, my tone clipped. “I’ll get you some water.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes fluttering closed as I walked away.

In the kitchen, I gripped the edge of the counter, staring at the faucet as the water poured into the glass. My hands trembled slightly, barley believing this is how my night had ended up.

I shut off the tap and took a deep breath, clutching the glass far too tight.. The cool condensation seeped into my palm, grounding me, but it wasn’t enough to quell the racing thoughts in my head.

Why had I let him in? I could have left him outside, made him someone else’s problem.

When I returned to the living room, Alexander was sprawled across the couch, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes like he was posing for some tragic painting. The lines of his face were softer in the low light, almost peaceful, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. Even in sleep—or near it—he couldn’t fully let go.

“Here,” I said, my voice sharp as I held out the glass.

He stirred at the sound of my voice, moving his arm and blinking up at me. For a moment, he looked dazed, his gaze unfocused as if he wasn’t sure if I was real. “You’re still here,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost boyish.

“Of course I’m still here,” I replied, exasperation slipping through. “You’re in my house. Besides, who else is going to deal with you?”

He chuckled weakly, the sound rough and low, and reached for the glass. His fingers brushed mine, a fleeting touch that sent an unwanted spark of heat up my arm. I pulled away quickly, pretending not to notice, but my heart betrayed me with its unsteady rhythm.

As he sipped the water, I sat down on the edge of the coffee table, crossing my arms as I watched him carefully. His face was pale, his features shadowed and hollow in the dim light.

“You didn’t have to let me in,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken.

I folded my arms tighter defensivly. “Really? You didn’t exactly give me much of a choice.”

He gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Still… thanks.”

I didn’t respond, unsure of what to say. The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, until Alexander broke it with a quiet, broken laugh that made my stomach twist.

“You probably hate me,” he said, his words slurred but tinged with something raw and honest. “You sure seem to. You’re nothing like the Lauren I knew, yet… definitely her.”

I stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

He leaned his head back against the couch, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. His shoulders slumped as if he were carrying the weight of twenty. “I’ve made so many mistakes, Lauren. With you. With… everything.”

There was something in his voice that caught me off guard. It wasn’t like him to admit fault, let alone speak with this kind of vulnerability. Then again, he was drunk.

I found myself leaning forward despite every instinct screaming at me to keep my distance. “Alexander—”

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he interrupted, his words slurring slightly but still coherent. “But I just… I ruined it all. You. Owen. Abigail.”

I froze, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp, painful rush. My mind latched onto the names, repeating them over and over like a broken record. Owen. Abigail. What did he mean? What did he know?

“What did you say?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowing as he seemed to teeter on the edge of consciousness. For a moment, I thought he had passed out, but then he spoke again, his voice softer, more broken. “Owen deserves better. And Abigail…”

My chest tightened, my thoughts spinning in a chaotic blur. “Alexander,” I said sharply, reaching out to shake his shoulder. “What are you talking about? What about Abigail?”

But he didn’t answer. His body went slack, his head lolling to the side as he sank deeper into unconsciousness.

I sat back, my hand trembling as I ran it through my hair. My thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and frustration, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make sense of his words.

Abigail.

Her name echoed in my mind. My daughter’s name. How could he know she was his daughter? He couldn’t know. We had swapped the hair strands for the paternity test; we had made sure of it. And yet… he had stumbled here, drunk, going on and on about my pregnancy.

Did that mean—

No. I shook my head, trying to banish the thought, but it clung to me, insistent and unrelenting.

I glanced down at Alexander, his face soft and unguarded in sleep. My breath moved long and hard through my lungs, the sound breaking the silence of the room.

Great. Just great.