I turn quietly toward the room Damien and I share. The other two being Vincent and Cast’s respectfully, because after three years of sharing a bed we all decided it should only be on special occasions.
The moment the door closes behind me, the noise softens. The lights on the nightstand are still dimmed from earlier—Damien must’ve been reading before going down. He’s careful like that, always leaving things how I like them.
My bag sits half-unzipped in the corner, a silent little confession waiting to be discovered. Beneath a folded sweater, the white box I bought yesterday presses against the fabric like a heartbeat I’ve been avoiding. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull it out, the faint crinkle of the packaging loud in the hush of the room. My hands tremble—not from fear exactly, but from that restless swirl of emotion that has no clear name, something that lives between dread and longing. I glance toward the door, half expecting a knock, though I know Damien would respect my privacy the best.
If this were Cast’s room, I wouldn’t have made it this far. He notices everything, and I swear he could probably sense it if I even thought about opening this box. Sometimes I think he’s one more heartbeat away from planting another chip in me. The thought tightens my jaw.
The chip.
I still don’t know when he did it, but it was some time in the last three years because he said it needed to be changed out every three years. But when could he have possibly chipped all of us? How would I have not felt a whole incision at the nape of my neck? I’m pissed because what the hell, but it saved me.
Every time I brush the back of my neck, I feel the small ridge beneath my skin and want to scream. He had no right, but truly I should thank him. I never will, but he knows I am more grateful than upset.
I swallow the anger down. Tomorrow. I’ll yell at him later, not during the holidays, or I’ll use it against him as a bargaining chip for a later argument.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I move to the bathroom, flicking the light on. The mirror reflects someone almost familiar again—color slowly returning to her skin, the bruise at her temple fading to the soft lavender of healing. Her hair falls in loose, glossy waves that catch the light instead ofclinging to her face, and her eyes—though ringed with fatigue—look clearer, steadier. I am starting to feel like myself again, even now.
I open the box, unfold the instructions, and stare at the small plastic test in my palm, absurdly delicate, like something holy and cruel at once. I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve done this before. I know what it means, what the signs feel like. I probably am, and this is just a precaution, totally unnecessary. And yet I stand there, frozen, suspended in the fragile space between hope and disaster.
What if I’m wrong? What if it’s just the exhaustion, the stress, the way my body’s still trying to learn what safety feels like after so long surviving on adrenaline? What if the universe isn’t generous enough to hand me another miracle when I still don’t know how to breathe?
I close my eyes, whisper, “Come on, Willow. Just do it.” The plastic clicks open.
Minutes stretch and blur. I set the test on the counter and sink down onto the edge of the tub, arms folded around myself, the sound of the light’s hum loud enough to drown out thought. I think of Damien—how gentle he’s been since I came home, how he never asks what I can’t explain, how he makes tea before I even realize I need it. He’s steady, patient, the kind of man who waits in the doorway until I nod, who keeps his distance not out of disinterest but respect.
He’d be a good father again. He already is. But would he wantanother? Would any of them, though? Cast has said he wants another, but we haven’t talked about it as a family yet—and it would have to be a family discussion. Damien wouldn’t mind; he never thought he’d have kids at all, so he’s just grateful for every one of them. He’d have as many—or as few—as I wanted.
If it were up to Cast, we’d have a football team by now. He’d probably repopulate the earth if I let him.
But Vincent… I’m not sure. He was never close to his own siblings. He’s never said he wanted more after Rose. Still, he loves her with everything he has, but that doesn’t mean he wants another baby.
My palm rests over my stomach. Not fear—something else, something quieter and heavier, like guilt wearing the shape of wonder.
I glance at the timer on my phone. Thirty seconds left.
I breathe in. Out.
And wait.
Outside, I hear a faint laugh—Cast’s, low and sharp. Then Damien’s quiet voice, soothing as always. Vincent’s muttered curse after dropping something heavy. It wouldn’t be bad having another baby. Another girl with a toothy smile and bright eyes. Another boy to rough house with Theo.
It almost feels right. The timer buzzes. My heart stutters.
I reach for the test, pulse hammering so hard it shakes my hand.
And then I see it.
Two lines.
My throat tightens.Shit.
I press a hand over my mouth, a half-laugh, half-sob catching in my chest. For a moment, I can’t move. The air feels heavy with everything I can’t say—fear, love, disbelief.
I don’t know if I should cry or smile. Maybe both.
A knock sounds softly on the door.
I freeze.
