The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 470

Kyle's POV

"You should hurry," he says. Without looking at me. Just matter-of-fact. "The parking garage gets colder as the night progresses. The concrete acts as a heat sink. Mama will lose body temperature at approximately 0.3 degrees per minute without the car's heating system."

"Thank you, Ethan."

"You're welcome."

He walks to his room. Closes the door. The sound of it is soft. Controlled. Very Ethan.

I stand in the empty living room.

The lamp with the crooked shade casts shadows on the wall. Long ones. Distorted. The shape of furniture made strange by angle and light.

The apartment smells like them. Like Mia and the children. That particular combination of lavender fabric softener and something baking—cookies maybe, from earlier in the week—and dog and childhood and home.

This is Mia's apartment. Her space.

Back to the door. Down the hallway. Into the elevator that still smells faintly of our presence.

The car is where I left it. Of course it is. She's still there.

I can see her through the windshield. Her head against the window. Her body curled slightly toward the door.

I open it slowly.

The dome light wants to come on. From this angle, I can see her face.

Her features are soft in sleep. That particular relaxation that happens when consciousness lets go. Her mouth slightly open. Her eyelashes dark against her cheeks. The small furrow between her brows that appears even in sleep.

Her sweater has shifted more now. Gravity and movement pulling it up further. The stretch marks are more visible. A whole constellation of them.

I reach for her seatbelt.

Then I reach for her.

One arm goes under her knees. The other behind her back. The position is awkward—reaching into the car, my balance precarious, my body protesting the angle.

But I've done this before. Once. A lifetime ago. When we were still married.

I lift.

She comes up easily. Lighter than I expected. Lighter than she should be. Has she been eating enough? Taking care of herself?

I straighten up. Adjust my grip. Make sure she's secure.

She fits.

That's the only word for it. The way her body curves against mine. The way her weight settles. The way her head finds the hollow of my shoulder like it was designed to rest there.

She fits.

I kick the car door closed. The sound is louder than I intended. Echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage. Bouncing back at us from a dozen angles.

And she wakes.

I feel it happen. Feel the change in her body. The way her muscles tense. The way her breathing shifts from the deep rhythm of sleep to something shorter. More alert.

Her eyes open.

I'm looking at her.

She's looking at me.

We're frozen. Both of us. In the middle of a parking garage. Her in my arms. Me holding her like something precious. Like something I'm afraid to drop.

Her eyes are still half-asleep. That particular glaze of someone who hasn't fully surfaced yet. Who's caught between dreams and reality. Between whatever she was seeing behind her closed lids and what she's seeing now.

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