I don’t let her finish the thought. I kiss her again, harder, swallowing the lie we both know it is.
Her lips are still tingling against mine, the taste of her on my mouth, when the silence finally presses in. We’re both breathing too hard, too close, like neither of us remembers how to pull back.
Her forehead rests against mine for a beat, her breath ragged. “No lies, Widow,” she says again, voice low, wrecked.
My chest aches with it. I nod, but words won’t come. Not when her hand is still tangled in mine, not when my body feels like it’s been rewired to hers.
I should say something. I should put space between us. But instead, I let the silence stand, let the weight of her confession and mine hold steady in the air.
Because for the first time in years, I don’t hear the voice that tells me to doubt, to run, to question everything.
For the first time, all I hear is her.
The next morning, the hospital halls smell like antiseptic and coffee. Ansel walks beside me, balancing an iced latte in each hand, eyeliner smudged from crying happy tears the night before. We pass a line of tired-looking new dads holding balloons.
Blythe’s room is warm and hushed, sunlight spilling through the blinds. She’s propped up in bed, hair messy, cheeks flushed, cradling a bundle so tiny it makes my heart stutter.
“Meet Sage,” she whispers, like the name itself is a secret worth keeping soft.
Ansel squeals, nearly dropping her coffee, and I swear the baby stirs at the sound. I step closer, my throat tightening at the sight of her—perfect, wrinkled, with a tuft of dark hair and Blythe’s lips.
Before I can speak, there’s a knock, and Bennette pushes the door open with his shoulder, carrying a massive bouquet of lilies that looks completely wrong in his hands. He’s in his usual uniform—worn jeans, a black t-shirt that clings to him just enough, flannel half-unbuttoned, and a backwards cap over messy hair. The tattoos creeping down his forearms shift as he sets the flowers on the side table.
“Congrats, Mama,” he says, voice low, a little rough. His crooked smile softens when it lands on Blythe. “You did well.”
Blythe’s eyes shine as she adjusts the baby in her arms. “Thanks, Bennette. They’re beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as her,” he nods toward the bundled newborn. He steps closer, but not too close, careful like his size might swallow the whole bed. “Sage, huh? Strong name.”
Bennette’s grin tugs wider, beard shifting with it. “Fair point. Moms do the heavy lifting; it seems only right their namesake gets a shot.” He glances down at Sage again, softer now. “Sage Hart’s got a good ring to it, though. Feels like a name that’ll stand on its own.”
Ansel whistles low from the corner. “Look at you, professor of names. Didn’t know you were such a poet under all that scruff.”
Bennette just shrugs, unbothered, eyes still on the baby. “Some things don’t need poetry. They just… fit.”
Blythe goes quiet at that, her thumb brushing over Sage’s tiny knuckles. For a beat, the whole room seems to be still with her.
Ansel finally breaks. “Well, isn’t this just the coziest picture? Blythe glowing, baby Sage being a miracle, and Bennette playing the part of tall, dark, and devastating. And then there’s you, Stella…” Her grin sharpens. “Looking like you’ve been up all night for reasons that have nothing to do with labor pains.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I shoot her a look sharp enough to kill. “Ansel.”
She just hums. “Mhmm. Thought so.”
Blythe’s gaze flicks up, sharper than I expect for someone who just had a baby. “Ansel.”
“What? I’m just saying…” Ansel leans back in her chair, smirking smugly. “Stella doesn’t usually blush. Makes a girl wonder.”
Before I can snap at her, Bennette shifts, scratching at his beard. “Hey, Blythe… mind if I hold her for a bit? Give you girls a chance to talk.”
Blythe’s eyes soften immediately. “Of course.” She passes Sage over, careful, and Bennette takes her like she’s made of glass, his big hands wrapping around her tiny frame with shocking gentleness.
Blythe passes Sage into Bennette’s arms, and the sight nearly undoes me. His hands are huge, calloused, and marked with ink, but they cradle her like she’s spun sugar. He shifts into the chair in the corner, lowering his voice as if even his size might be too much for the moment.
“Hey, little one,” he murmurs, the words rumbling low under his beard. Sage makes a small sound, more sigh than cry, and tucks against his chest like she’s been there forever.
I can’t look away. It’s the contrast—all that grit and weight wrapped around something impossibly delicate—and it strikes me somewhere deep. My throat goes tight because it’s more thana picture. It’s a reminder. That some people fit where you least expect them to. Maybe strength doesn’t have to mean breaking things.
Blythe clears her throat, pulling me back. Her eyes are tired but unflinching. “You don’t owe me or Ansel anything. But if something’s happening between you and Elaine…” She hesitates, glances at Sage, then back at me. “Don’t let it be half a thing. Not lies. Not games. If it’s real, Stella, make it real.”
