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When it finally passes, I sit back for a minute and breathe.

I rinse my mouth, splash water under my eyes, and try to make myself look like a woman who didn’t just lose a fight with her own body in a stranger’s guest bathroom.

When I return to the office, Alester is exactly where I left him.

Same chair. Same folder. Same calm expression.

“Morning sickness is common during the first trimester,” he says as I sit down.

I look at him for a second.

Not are you all right? Not do you need anything? Just a fact.

“Yes,” I say. “I know.”

“It’s good that you reported it.”

I almost laugh, but my stomach isn’t ready for comedy.

“That was my goal,” I say. “Responsible vomiting.”

If he notices the sarcasm, he doesn’t reward it. Instead, he stands and walks to the sideboard near the window. There’s a glass pitcher there, already chilled, because of course there is. Alester Chandler’s office is the kind of place where even juice looks scheduled.

“You should drink something,” he says.

“I’m okay.”

“You may feel better with some sugar.” He pours orange juice into a glass and brings it to me.

It’s a considerate gesture. Technically. The sort of thing another person might do with warmth. From Alester, it feels different.

He’s not unkind. That’s almost what makes it strange. He has seen a symptom, identified a useful response, and provided it. Nausea, juice. Problem, correction. There is no cruelty in it, but there’s no softness either.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the glass.

He returns to his seat.

I take a small sip. The juice is cold and too sweet, but it stays down, which is more than I expected from my body today.

Alester watches for a moment, then looks back at the file. “Dr. Price should be informed if the nausea worsens.”

“I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

“Yes,” he says. “I’m aware.”

There’s nothing unusual in his tone, but I feel myself pay attention anyway. I hate that my body reacts to Dalton’s name before my brain has time to be sensible about it.

Dalton and Alester should not remind me of each other, but sometimes they do. Both older. Both composed. Both men who can make a room shift without raising their voices. Both used to giving instructions and having them followed.

But the similarities end in the places that matter.

Dalton would give me juice, then stand there until I actually drank it, then tell me to eat something, then probably annoy me into doing it. Alester asks whether a symptom has been reported. Dalton asks how I am and waits long enough for the real answer to show up.

One makes me feel managed. The other makes me feel seen, even when he’s being impossible.

“He has been attentive?” Alester asks.

I look up from the glass. “Dalton?”