Casey woke to the sound of someone banging pots in her kitchen.

For a moment, she was disoriented—had she fallen asleep on the couch again? But no, this wasn't her apartment. The familiar floral wallpaper and worn hardwood floors belonged to her parents' house, where she'd been staying since the separation.

The banging continued, followed by her mother's voice: "Drew Thompson, if you wake her up with all that racket—"

"Sorry, Marie! Just looking for the big soup pot."

Casey sat up so fast her head spun. Drew? In her mother's kitchen? At—she squinted at her phone—6:30 in the morning?

"Third cabinet from the stove," her mother was saying. "Though I still think we should let her sleep..."

"The doctor said she needs to eat something before the nausea hits. And you know how she gets when she's stressed about work."

Casey pressed her hands to her temples, memories of yesterday flooding back. The cramping that had sent her into a panic. Drew's voice on the phone, steady despite his obvious worry. The emergency visit to Dr. Conner's office. The last visit was close to three weeks ago when they heard their baby's heartbeat for the first time.

"Just some normal first trimester discomfort," the doctor had assured them. "But take it easy for a few days. No stress."

Easier said than done when you had a major client presentation in two days and a boyfriend-slash-ex-husband who'd apparently appointed himself your personal chef.

She pulled on her robe and padded down to the kitchen. Drew stood at the stove in yesterday's wrinkled clothes, stirring something that smelled like her grandmother's chicken soup recipe. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, watching him with an expression Casey couldn't quite read.

"You don't have to do this," Casey said from the doorway.

Drew didn't even turn around. "Good morning to you too. Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm perfectly capable of—"

"Sitting?" He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah, I know. Do it anyway."

Her mother kicked out a chair. "Listen to him, sweetheart. He's been here since five."

"Five?" Casey sank into the chair despite herself. "Drew, you have that big meeting with the zoning board—"

"Rescheduled."

"But—"

"Eat your soup."

A bowl appeared in front of her, steam rising from perfectly clear broth. Just like he used to make when she was sick in college, during those endless all-nighters before finals.

"You can't study if you're not eating," he'd say, bringing soup to her dorm room. "Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor yet," she'd remind him, but she'd always eaten every bite.

He'd given up on medical school their senior year, realizing his real passion was for building things, not fixing people. But he'd never lost that caretaking instinct.

The soup was perfect. Of course it was. Drew had learned the recipe from her grandmother himself, spending countless Sunday afternoons in her kitchen until he got it exactly right.

"The client meeting's tomorrow," she said between sips. "I can't just—"

"Melissa's handling it."

"What?"

"I called her last night. She's got everything under control." He finally sat down, pushing a sleeve of crackers toward her. "Eat these too."

Casey stared at him. "You called my assistant?"

"Actually," her mother interjected, "Melissa called him. Right after you nearly passed out in the break room."

"I did not—"

"Casey." Drew's voice was gentle but firm. "You're taking two days off. Doctor's orders. Real ones this time."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to remind him that they weren't married anymore, that he couldn't just take over her life like this, that she'd been handling things just fine on her own.

But had she?

The past few weeks flashed through her mind—the constant nausea, the dizzy spells, the late nights at the office trying to prove she could still do everything. She'd been so focused on showing everyone—Drew, her boss, the whole damn town—that pregnancy wouldn't slow her down, she hadn't noticed herself running on empty.

Just like before.

"You're burning yourself out," Drew had said, the night of their biggest fight. "Working sixty-hour weeks, skipping meals, barely sleeping..."

"That's what it takes to make VP! You knew this was my dream—"

"Your dream shouldn't kill you, Case."

She'd accused him of not supporting her career. He'd accused her of not caring about their marriage. They'd both said things they couldn't take back.

And now here they were, falling into old patterns. Him, trying to take care of her. Her, bristling at being taken care of.

But something was different this time. Maybe it was the baby. Maybe it was the scare yesterday. Or maybe they'd both finally learned something from their mistakes.

"Two days," she said finally.

Drew's relief was visible. "Thank you."

"But I'm checking my emails."

"Once a day."

"Drew."

"Twice. Final offer."

Her mother cleared her throat. "I'll just... go check on the laundry."

She disappeared down the hall, leaving them alone with the cooling soup and all their complicated history.

"I know what you're doing," Casey said quietly.

"Making soup?"

"Trying to fix everything. Take care of everything. Like before."

He was silent for a long moment, stirring his own bowl of soup without eating it. "I know I can be... overwhelming. When I'm worried about you."

"And I know I can be stubborn about accepting help."

"Just a little." His smile was fond. "Remember that time you had the flu during midterms?"

"And you practically moved into my dorm room?"

"You were running a hundred and two degree fever and still trying to study organic chemistry."

"And you hid my textbooks."

"For your own good!"

They both laughed, the sound echoing in the sunny kitchen. For a moment, it felt like old times—easy, comfortable, right.

Then reality crept back in. The divorce papers, still unsigned. The Chicago job, still undecided. The half-finished house, still waiting.

"I can't go back," she said softly. "To how things were before. Us falling into our old roles, me working too much, you trying to fix everything..."

"I know." He reached across the table, touching her hand. "I'm not trying to go back. I'm trying to go forward. Better this time."

"Better how?"

"Like... I still want to take care of you. That's never going to change. But I can learn to step back when you need space. And maybe..." He squeezed her fingers. "Maybe you can learn to let me help sometimes. Not because you need it, but because we're stronger together."

Casey looked at their joined hands, thinking about yesterday. About how scared she'd been when the cramps started. About how hearing Drew's voice on the phone had steadied her, even before she knew everything was okay.

About how sometimes being strong meant knowing when to lean on someone else.

"Okay," she said.

His eyebrows shot up. "Okay?"

"Two days off. Limited email. All the soup I can eat." She squeezed his hand back. "But then we talk about Chicago. And the client meeting. And... everything else."

"Deal." He lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Now finish your soup before it gets cold. Doctor's orders."

"Still not a doctor."

"Grandmother's orders, then. Even scarier."

She laughed, and suddenly she was back in their tiny college apartment, sophomore year, during what they'd always called The Great Med School Crisis...

---

Seven Years Ago

Casey found Drew sitting on their worn futon at 3 AM, surrounded by dropped pre-med classes and shattered expectations.

"I can't do it anymore," he said without looking up. "I'm dropping out of the program."

Her heart stopped. They'd planned everything around medical school—their class schedules, their summer internships, their entire future. Drew had wanted to be a doctor since he was twelve, when his grandfather's heart surgery had inspired him to help others.

"Is this about the organic chemistry grade? Because one C doesn't—"

"It's not about the grade." He finally looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "It's about waking up every morning dreading my classes. It's about spending more time sketching buildings in my notebooks than studying anatomy. It's about..." He swallowed hard. "It's about not wanting to disappoint everyone. Especially you."

"Me?" She sat beside him, the ancient futon creaking under their combined weight. "Drew, you could never—"

"We had it all planned out. The doctor and the marketing executive. The perfect power couple." His laugh was bitter. "Now I'm just... lost."

Casey thought about all their late-night conversations about the future, about the life they'd mapped out so carefully. Then she thought about the way Drew's face lit up when he talked about architecture, about the detailed sketches he doodled during study breaks, about how he came alive whenever they drove past a construction site.

"Show me," she said.

"What?"

"Show me what you've been drawing instead of studying organic chemistry."

He hesitated, then pulled out his notebook. Page after page of buildings—modern apartments with clean lines, cozy family homes with wraparound porches, renovated historical buildings maintaining their character while gaining new life.

"These are amazing."

"They're just sketches..."

"They're dreams." She took his hand. "Different dreams than we planned, maybe. But still yours. Still ours, if you want them to be."

He stared at their joined hands. "You're not disappointed?"

"In you following your passion? Never." She bumped his shoulder. "Though I admit, I'm a little worried about telling your mom. She's already started monogramming those doctor's coats."

That startled a laugh out of him—the first real one she'd heard in weeks. "God, she's going to be devastated."

"She'll survive. And hey, maybe you can build her a new house to make up for it."

"Yeah?" Some of the old light was coming back to his eyes. "With a big kitchen for Sunday dinners?"

"And one of those fancy wraparound porches she's always wanted."

"I love you," he said suddenly, fiercely. "You know that, right? Even if I'm not going to be Dr. Thompson?"

"I love you too." She kissed him softly. "Doctor, builder, or professional finger painter—as long as you're happy."

They stayed up the rest of the night planning a new future—one with blueprints instead of prescriptions, construction sites instead of operating rooms. It wasn't the path they'd expected, but somehow that made it more precious. More theirs.

The next morning, Drew dropped his pre-med classes and declared a major in architectural engineering. His mother cried (but came around when he showed her his designs). His father just clapped him on the back and said, "About time, son."

And Casey learned that sometimes love meant watching someone change course and choosing to change with them.

---

Present Day

The memory faded, leaving Casey in her mother's sunny kitchen, watching Drew gather his things for work. They'd overcome that first big hurdle together, supporting each other through the uncertainty of changed plans and new dreams.

Where had that flexibility gone? When had they stopped bending with each other's changes and started breaking instead?

"Hey," she called as he reached the door. "Remember sophomore year? The Great Med School Crisis?"

He turned back, surprise melting into understanding. "When you stayed up all night helping me plan a new future?"

"We were good at that once. Figuring things out together."

"We were." He leaned against the doorframe. "Maybe we still can be."

She thought about their current crossroads—her career, his Chicago offer, the baby changing everything once again. "Maybe we can."

Later, after Drew left for work (extracting multiple promises that she would rest and call if she needed anything), Casey found her mother in the garden.

"He stayed all night, you know," Marie said, deadheading marigolds. "Slept in that uncomfortable kitchen chair, just in case you needed something."

"Mom..."

"I'm not pushing." Marie held up soil-covered hands. "Just observing that some habits..." She smiled. "Well, some habits are worth keeping."

Casey touched her still-flat stomach, thinking about patterns and changes and the difference between fixing something and building something new.

Maybe they were both right. Maybe some habits needed breaking—the overworking, the stubbornness, the fear of needing each other.

But maybe some habits—like loving each other, like choosing each other, like building something stronger than their individual dreams—maybe those were worth holding onto.

Worth fighting for.

Worth getting right this time.