“I’m here,” he murmurs, voice low, steadying. “You’re safe. You’re awake.”
Safe.
The word trembles inside me like a lie told kindly.
But before I can question it, before I can reach for him or the memories that lurk behind the last thing I remember, something moves in his arms.
Something small.
My eyes drag downward, and for the first time I see what he is holding.
A baby.
Our baby.
Wrapped in soft white cloth, tiny face hidden against my husband’s chest. My breath stops entirely. The world narrows. I can’t feel the stiffness anymore; I can’t feel anything but a tidal wave of raw, primal emotion that shakes me from the inside out.
Billy watches me with a fragile, breaking softness, as if my reaction is the only proof he needs that I’m truly awake.
“He’s healthy,” he says quietly, voice hoarse. “Strong. Perfect.”
My throat burns.
I open my mouth, but the emotion sticks there, choking me until tears spill from the corners of my eyes.
“A boy.” I manage, a smile cracking my dry lips. “He’s okay?” I question, the words barely sound.
His lips pull up into a smile. A real one. A soft one that looks like sunlight cracking through a shuttered window.
“He’s better than okay,” he whispers. “He’s been waiting for you.”
Billy shifts carefully, reverently, and brings the baby closer so I can see him better. The tiniest face peeks out, crushed-rose lips, soft cheeks flushed with life, a little furrow between his brows like he’s already judging the world he’s been born into.
He is beautiful.
Dangerously so.
Beautiful in a way that hurts.
“How…?” I try, swallowing, “How did- What happened?”
Billy glances down at our son before answering, as if protecting him from the memory of it.
“You went into labour suddenly. Too fast. The bleeding…” His voice cracks like old wood snapping. He clears it, but it doesn’t fully repair. “You lost a lot of blood. They had to do an emergency section to save you both.”
Emergency.
Blood.
Save.
The words land like heavy stones, each one sinking deeper into me. My hand instinctively moves toward my stomach, and I feel the bandage, thick, cool beneath the blankets.
There’s no pain.
Not yet.
Only an emptiness.
