I look at him in the dimmed light. Really look. The hollows beneath his cheekbones where shadow pools, the sharp line of his jaw, the way the low light carves his features into stark, but beautiful angles. He looks thoroughly exhausted.
He's been holding himself together for hours—for me, for our friends, for the doctors, for everyone who needed him to be strong. The cost of it is visible now that there's no one left to see him. The tension is still locked in his shoulders. The way his hand grips mine like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go.
I tug his hand gently. "Come here."
He looks at me. Shadows flicker in his expression. Resistance, maybe. Or the fear of what happens when he stops holding on.
"Nick. Come here."
He moves from the chair to the edge of my bed. Then closer, when I shift to make room for him. His body is warm and solid against my side, the broad heat of him, the familiar weight I've slept against every night. Even now, even here, some deep-rooted part of me responds to the press of his body alongside mine, a low hum of recognition beneath the exhaustion.
His head drops to my shoulder. Then lower, to my chest. And I feel the shudder run through him. Not tears yet, but the moment before tears. The dam finally cracking after hours of holding.
My hand comes up to his hair. Strokes gently. Slow, soothing passes through the dark strands.
His voice is rough, muffled against me. "When you were talking to her. On the rooftop." He swallows. "About wanting to watch me hold our baby for the first time. About seeing me become the father I never had."
He pauses. The shudder inside him deepens, and I feel the warmth of tears soaking through the thin hospital gown against my chest.
"I heard every word, Avery. She had that gun on you and you were saying these things about me, about us, about the life you wanted for our child, and all I could think was—" His voice breaks. "All I could think was how powerless I felt. Standing there, unable to fix it. Watching the person I love most in this world get hurt, and I couldn't stop it."
The words slice through me, not because they're true. Because I know he did everything he possibly could today. It hurts to hear how deeply he believes he did nothing.
"I'm supposed to protect you." The words are ragged. "That's my job. And today I couldn't—"
"You did protect me." I keep stroking his hair, my voice steady even as my heart aches for him. "You came for me. You fought for me. You didn't stop until I was safe."
He lifts his head, and his blue eyes are wet, red-rimmed, more vulnerable than I've ever seen them. "You saved yourself. You saved both of us." A shaky breath. "And I don't mean just today. It's always been you holding everything together. I just… I love you so fucking much."
The words crack something open in my chest. I cup his face in my hands, feeling the roughness of stubble, the dampness on his cheeks.
"I love you too,” I whisper, gathering him to me. "There’s nothing you need to fix now. You don’t need to be strong for me. You don't have to be anything right now except here."
He makes a sound against my chest—half breath, half strangled curse—and his arm tightens around my waist, pulling himself closer, burying himself against me. His big body shakes. Not the controlled tremor from before. This is raw. Grief and relief and terror arriving all at once, hours after the danger passed, the way the body always waits until it's safe before it falls apart.
I hold him through it. My fingers in his hair. My lips against his temple. The quiet beep of the monitor beside us confirming, over and over, the heartbeat of the child we almost lost today.
After a long time, the shaking eases. His breathing finds a slower rhythm, his body growing heavy against mine with an exhaustion that's past fighting.
I keep my hand in his hair. Outside the window, the city has shifted from dusk to dark while I wasn't paying attention, Manhattan's skyline reduced to a sea of lit windows and the distant pulse of traffic.
His breathing deepens. His weight settles fully against me, heavy and warm, and I realize he's asleep. This man who hasn't slept in probably thirty hours, who white-knuckled his way through a rooftop crisis and a hospital vigil and an evening of being strong for everyone who walked through that door… he's finally allowed himself to let go.
I close my eyes. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady against my ribs, a counterpoint to the rapid tempo of our baby's pulse on the monitor. My entire world exists in the sound of those two heartbeats.
Tomorrow I’ll go home. On Saturday I’ll marry Nick for the second time. But for right now, I have everything I could possibly ever need.
I match my breathing to his, and let sleep take me.
42
NICK
Avery's laugh reaches mebefore I round the corner into the kitchen the next morning. Bright and unguarded, followed by the quieter murmur of Brenda's voice.
I watch them from the entryway, and for a moment I let myself simply stand here. Taking it in. Letting it become real.
Avery and her mother sit at the marble island, morning light flooding through the tall windows and catching the steam rising from their cups. Brenda's hand covers Avery's on the countertop, a gesture so natural, so unthinking, it speaks to the strength and depth of their bond.
