"Does the baby sleep when you talk to him or her?"
"Sometimes. I think the baby likes me talking about you."
His smile is faint but real.
I tell him about the late-night cravings. The pickles and peanut butter that made Grace gag. How Lexi cried when I showed her the first sonogram. The way the baby hiccups every night at ten.
And right on cue, there's a soft little tap against his hand.
He startles again. "Was that…"
"A hiccup," I say, smiling.
He shakes his head in wonder. "This is real."
"All of it."
I ramble about how Grace and Lexi keep trying to paint the nursery, even though we haven't picked a house yet. He listens, quiet and steady, while I describe how the baby seems to calm when I read them his letters.
I tell him everything.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, he listens.
Not as a soldier. Not as a man trying to hold it all together.
But as Caden.
The man who dreamed of a porch and muddy boots and babies giggling in the grass.
The man who's remembering how to hope again.
He doesn’t ask me to go, lets me stay.
That tiny truth repeats in my head over and over as I lie next to him. Even though he doesn't say much, he lets our fingers stay tangled, and his breathing evens out as the tension drains from his shoulders.
I don't sleep. Not really. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the way his brow furrows even in rest, like he's fighting some invisible war behind his closed eyes. His hand is warm in mine. Still strong. Still him.
I'm afraid to move because if I shift, the moment will vanish. Like he'll wake up and realize he made a mistake letting me in again. So I stay still, and I pray. Not loudly or desperately. The quiet prayer you whisper with your whole heart.
In the morning, when the light softens the edges of the room, Caden stirs. He blinks slowly, then looks at me. There's no anger in his eyes. It’s something heavy and tired. Something broken that he's still holding together with grit and his bare hands.
"You stayed," he says, voice rough with sleep.
I nod, unsure if I can speak yet.
He doesn't let go of my hand.
Maybe we're not broken. Maybe we're just becoming something new.
Chapter 8
Caden
The pain still lingers. The phantom aches in my leg, the twinge in my arm when I stretch too far, the weight in my chest that feels like a bruise that never fully heals. But something's different now. The heaviness doesn't win anymore. Not every day.
I want more than to survive.
I want to live.
