On the screen, Santiago moves, strong and defiant. His heartbeat fills the room—fast but steady, a warrior's rhythm that makes my chest tight with love and fear in equal measure.
"He looks good," Morrison continues, measuring, checking, documenting. "Good growth, plenty of fluid, moving well. But Lena..." She sets down the wand, meets my eyes. "Your blood pressure, the stress hormones in your blood work from last week—your body is struggling. The baby's okay for now, but if this continues..."
"I know." The medical knowledge makes it worse, understanding exactly how stress could trigger premature labor, placental abruption, a dozen other complications that end with empty arms and a broken heart.
"Is the situation at home improving?"
I almost laugh. Home. Which home? The apartment where his cut sits on my counter? The clubhouse he wants me to move to? The burned remains of my clinic?
"It's complicated."
She hands me tissues to wipe off the gel. "Uncomplicate it. For his sake if not yours." She pauses at the door. "Twenty-fiveweeks means viability if he comes early, but barely. Every week inside is a victory. Remember that."
I dress slowly, Santiago settling now that the examination is over. Twenty-five weeks. Viable but vulnerable. Just like everything else in my life.
Zane's exactly where I left him, leaning against the wall like a guardian or a threat, depending on the angle. "Everything okay?"
"Blood pressure's too high. Baby's fine for now." I start walking toward the elevator, needing movement. "She says to reduce stress."
The laugh that escapes him is dark. "Yeah? How's that working out?"
"About as well as you'd expect."
The drive to the burned clinic site is silent. Zane follows in his truck—giving me space but not leaving. Always the balance with him now. Present but not pressing. I park where I always used to, muscle memory guiding me to a spot that doesn't matter anymore.
The late afternoon sky threatens rain, clouds heavy and gray like bruises. We walk the half-block to where my van died, ourfootsteps the only sound. The yellow caution tape is gone now, but the skeleton remains.
Later, at the burned remains of my mobile clinic, we stand in silence. The metal skeleton of my van looks like the ribcage of some ancient beast, picked clean and left to rust. The smell of char still lingers, mixing with the first drops of rain that start to fall.
"That was mine," I say, not for the first time. "The only thing that was just mine."
"I know."
"I saved lives here. Real lives. People who had nowhere else to go." My voice cracks on the last word, and I taste salt—tears or rain, I'm not sure. "Now it's just another casualty of your world."
"Our world," he corrects gently.
"I never chose—"
"You did. The moment you texted back. The moment you came to my apartment. Every moment since." He's not cruel about it, just honest. "We both chose this."
The rain falls harder now, soaking through my jacket, making my hair stick to my face. Santiago moves, strong kicks like he's protesting the cold and wet. I think about the simple life I'llnever have—the one where I marry someone safe, have babies without death threats, save lives without causing violence.
"I'm grieving," I tell him. "Not us. Not this. But the life I thought I'd have."
"I know."
"I don't know if I'm choosing this or just drowning in it."
He doesn't answer because there isn't one. We stand in the rain, in the ruins of my old life, while our son grows between us. The silence breathes with everything we can't say—apologies that wouldn't matter, promises we can't keep, futures we can't guarantee.
"Come on," he finally says. "You're soaked."
The drive to my apartment is quiet except for the rain on windshields and Santiago's movements, like he's swimming in his own private ocean.
At my apartment, Zane walks me to my door but doesn't assume he's invited in. Growth, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
"You can stay tonight," I say, surprising myself. "Just tonight. On the couch."
