She moves before I can finish.
Suddenly she's on the bed beside me, her arms wrapped around me, the jewelry box pressed between us, and we're both crying.
Years of pain and anger and grief pouring out in the sterile quiet of the hospital room.
"I was so scared." Leah's voice is muffled against my shoulder. "When Garrett called and said they'd taken you—when they brought you in and I saw what he did—I thought I wasgoing to lose you too. I thought I was going to lose another person I love, and I hadn't even told you that I still—that I never stopped?—"
"I know." I hold her tighter. "I know. I love you too. I never stopped either."
We stay like that for a long time.
Crying. Holding each other. Letting go of all the hurt we've been carrying.
When we finally pull apart, Leah's face is blotchy and swollen, mascara smeared under her eyes.
She looks beautiful.
"I have something for you too," she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Wait here."
She slips out of the room and returns a moment later with a small gift bag.
Inside is a onesie—tiny and soft and pale blue, with the words "Protected by the Saint's Outlaws MC" embroidered on the front.
"I saw a custom onesie shop online," Leah says, almost shy. "I know it's cheesy, but I thought... I thought Waylon might like it."
I laugh through my tears. "It's perfect. He's going to love it."
Leah smiles.
A real smile, the kind I haven't seen from her in years.
"We're going to be okay," she says. "Aren't we?"
"Yeah." I take her hand and squeeze. "I think we are."
Garrett comes back an hour later, carrying a bag of takeout that smells like heaven.
He stops short when he sees Leah still sitting on the bed, the jewelry box open between us.
"Everything okay?" he asks carefully.
I look at Leah. She looks at me.
"Yeah," we say together.
And for the first time in years, I really believe it.
That night, after Leah leaves and the takeout containers are cleared away and the nurses have done their final rounds, Garrett climbs into the narrow hospital bed beside me.
It's against about six different rules, but no one tries to stop him.
He wraps his arms around me carefully, mindful of my injuries, and I press my back against his chest.
His hand settles on my belly, and I feel Waylon kick against his palm.
"Hey, buddy," Garrett murmurs. "Your mama needs to sleep. You settle down in there."
Another kick. Defiant. Already stubborn, just like his father.
