Like our entire future depends on what that screen shows.
"There we go," the technician says, adjusting the angle. She's kind, this woman—middle-aged, with warm eyes and a gentle touch.
She hasn't asked about my injuries, hasn't questioned the armed man covered in blood who refuses to leave the room.
She just does her job, professional and calm. "See that flicker?"
I look at the screen.
It's mostly gray and black, shapes I can't quite make sense of.
Shadows and static and nothing that looks like a baby.
But there—in the center—a tiny white blob.
No bigger than a raspberry, maybe.
And inside the blob, a rapid flutter of movement.
"That's the heartbeat," she continues, pointing with her free hand. "Strong and steady. About 160 beats per minute, which is perfectly normal for this stage."
The heartbeat. Our baby's heartbeat.
The tears come before I can stop them.
Silent streams rolling down my cheeks, blurring my vision until I can barely see the screen.
But I don't need to see it.
I can hear it now—the technician has turned on the audio, and the room fills with a rapid whooshing sound.
Like tiny horse hooves galloping.
Like waves on a shore.
Like the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
"The baby is okay?" RJ's voice is rough. Strained. Like he's holding himself together by sheer force of will. "After everything—the stress, the—" He can't finish the sentence. Can't say the words.
The kidnapping. The knife. The threats.
"Everything looks perfect," the technician assures him with a warm smile. "The embryo is measuring right on track for six weeks. Heartbeat is strong. No signs of distress or abnormality."
She glances between us, her expression softening at whatever she sees in our faces. "Whatever happened, your baby is a fighter."
A fighter, like its father.
RJ makes a sound—something between a laugh and a sob.
His grip on my hand tightens even further, and when I look up at him, I see tears tracking down his face.
This hardened soldier, this man who's killed without hesitation, who put a bullet between a woman's eyes without flinching—crying over a blurry image on a screen.
I've never loved him more than I do in this moment.
"Thank you," I manage to say to the technician, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you so much."
She nods, understanding that we need a moment alone. "I'll print some pictures for you. Several copies—I have a feeling grandparents might want one." She winks, and I find myself smiling. "The doctor will be in shortly to discuss your other injuries and discharge instructions."
