She helps me put my legs up in the stirrups and guides me closer to the edge.
“Deep breath in,” she says. I do, and the room smells like citrus and antiseptic. “And out.”
“May I?” he asks, palm open, not moving.
I look at his hand, at the monitor, at the ceiling tile with a tiny hairline crack. I put my fingers in his. His hand is warm and firm and comforting.
“Okay,” Bianchi says. The paper tugs against my skin as I shift. She touches my knee as a warning. “Here we go.”
There’s pressure, strange but not sharp. The screen wakes up to a storm of gray static. My breath lodges. Luca’s thumb moves once along the side of my hand, just a little gesture to remind me he’s there.
“We’re in,” Bianchi narrates, eyes on the screen, adjusting angles with minute moves of her wrist. “Uterus… cervix… and—” She pauses, fine-tunes, clicks the depth. “There.”
I don’t see it at first—just moons and shadows. Then she freezes the frame and traces a small black oval with the cursor. “Gestational sac,” she says. Another tiny movement, and within the dark, a brighter grain. “And here it is.”
My chest is too tight. I don’t blink. The cursor moves again, lands on a little shape hugging one side, a little peanut swimming in the sea of static.
“That’s…?” My voice comes out thin.
“Embryo,” she says gently. Then, she taps a button and sound floods the room. A high, fast flutter that seems impossible but is all the evidence I need.
For the first time, the reality of it all hits me. This is real. This is happening. I’m having a baby.
With Luca Conti.
The room tilts just a bit, and I grab onto Luca’s hand harder. He just continues holding on.
“Nice cardiac activity,” Bianchi says, measuring with little calipers. “Crown–rump length puts you at…” She clicks, calculates. “Seven weeks, six days by measurement. That aligns with your dates. Heart rate one-fifty-two.” She shoots a small, calming smile at me. “Everything looks appropriate for gestational age.”
My eyes sting. I laugh and choke on it. Luca’s head tips, just a fraction, toward mine. I feel all the same emotions rolling off of him.
“There you are,” he murmurs. To the screen, to me, I don’t know.
“Would you like a picture?” Bianchi asks, already printing one. As if anyone would say no. The machine spits out a glossy strip, and then another. She sets them on the tray.
“Do you want to see the screen up close?” she offers.
“Yes,” I say, though I don’t move. I can’t. I can only look.
She rolls the machine a little closer, and Luca crouches more to get a better look, bringing his face so close, I can smell the cologne on his skin, spicy but clean. Expensive.
The image sharpens when Bianchi adjusts the angle: a bright flicker, a tiny pulse in a tiny body.
“Would you like a minute before we continue?” she asks, voice soft, eyes kind.
I nod. “Please.”
“Of course. I’ll be back in five minutes.” She lowers the volume, parks the machine where I can still see it, and slips out, the latch clicking gently closed.
We stay where we are, shoulder to shoulder in the quiet room, the faint echo the only noise. I can feel his breath near my temple, his hand clutching mine tightly.
“Elena,” he says, so quietly it dissipates almost immediately. I feel him shift toward me before I see it.
I look up and meet wonder in his eyes, unguarded and bright, and something in me lets go in relief. This whole time, I thought that this wouldn’t be as much for him as it is for me. He’s been through it four times, and somehow, I thought that I was the only one experiencing this wonder, this disbelief.
But I see it in his eyes, the storm of love for this life that we created.
“You did that,” he whispers, his breath coasting over my lips.
