The scan photo is warm from being trapped in my hand.
“Just breathe,” Drago mumbles behind me, his mouth brushing the side of my head. “I’m right here.”
I nod again, throat tight. Then I push the door open.
And for a second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing.
Because Dad isn’t still. Dad isn’t grey and silent beneath tubes and machines. Dad’s eyes are open. Not glazed. Not blank. Open and alive.
My body goes cold. Then everything inside me collapses at once.
“Dad…” I say softly. The word is barely sound. More like a prayer.
His gaze locks onto mine.
And I watch his face shift, the faintest tightening around his eyes, like waking up hurts. Like staying alive hurts. Like he’s fighting even now.
“Lily…” he rasps. His voice is ruined. But it’s his.
It’s fucking his.
The scan photo slips in my fingers. My knees buckle.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until it’s pouring down my face, and my chest is heaving so hard I can’t pull in air.
I stumble forward. “Dad, oh my God—” I choke. “Oh my God, you’re awake…”
His hand twitches on the bed, like moving takes everything he has.
I grab it instantly and clutch it to my chest. Holding it as if I let go, he’ll disappear again. “You came back,” I sob. “You came back to me.”
He swallows, throat working like it’s painful. “I… tried…” he manages, voice scraping. “For you.”
My heart splinters. “Thank you,” I breathe out, pressing my forehead to his knuckles.
I pull back just enough to look at his face. He looks older. Softer. Human. And I hate that it took blood and war for me to see him like this.
My hand shakes as I lift the scan photo. “I told you,” I whisper. “I told you you had to wake up…”
Lev’s brows knit, confusion flickering. “What…” he rasps. “What is that?”
A laugh breaks out of me. “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out. “I’m pregnant, Dad.”
The words hang there like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. For a second, Dad just stares at me like his brain can’t catch up. Then his eyes squeeze shut, and when he opens them again, there’s devastation in them.
Not from pain or fear. It’s something else. Something softer.
“A baby,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word.
I nod frantically.
“Yes,” I sob. “A baby. Your grandbaby.”
His fingers tighten around mine, weak but there.
And when he looks at me again, his gaze is fierce even through exhaustion. “You’re safe now?” he rasps. “You okay?”
I choke out a laugh through tears. “Yes,” I tell him. “Because he’s here.”
