And suddenly I’m alone.
Well. Not alone. The baby’s here. Growing. Real.
I rest my hand on my stomach. It’s more pronounced now. A gentle curve where there used to be nothing.
“Hi, baby girl,” I whisper.
I don’t know why I said girl. It just felt right. Like I know, somehow.
The SUV pulls away from the curb. I watch NOIR disappear in the side mirror. Pink walls. Gold fixtures. Jasper standing in the doorway, waving.
My family.
Not by blood. By choice.
I lean my head back against the seat. Close my eyes.
“Your daddy’s coming home this week,” I tell the baby. “Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. It’s not quite two weeks yet, but—” My voice cracks. “But I was hoping he’d be here. For my birthday. For today.”
I wipe my eyes.
“Stupid, right? He said two weeks. It’s only been thirteen days. I should be grateful he’s even alive. That he’s coming back at all.” I press my hand harder against my stomach. “But I wanted him here. I wanted him to see me turn thirty. To see this dress. To see how much you’ve grown.”
Pause.
My voice cracks.
I breathe through it. Keep going.
“He’s going to love you so much, baby girl. More than anything. More than his whole scary reputation and his leather jackets and his stupid need to fix everything alone.” I smile through the tears. “He reads poetry. Did I tell you that? Russian poetry. And he cooks. And he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.”
The SUV turns left. Smooth. Controlled.
“He’s so brave. And strong. And terrifying when he needs to be. But with me—with us—he’s different. Softer. Like he finally found something worth protecting that isn’t just duty or loyalty or revenge.”
I wipe my eyes. My makeup’s probably ruined. I don’t care.
“I hope you get his eyes. They’re this dark green that looks almost black until the light hits them just right. And his hair. And his stubbornness.” I laugh softly. “Actually, maybe not the stubbornness. One of us is enough.”
The baby doesn’t respond. Obviously. Twelve weeks is too early for kicking.
But I swear I feel something. A flutter. A presence.
“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper. “Even if he doesn’t come back. Even if it’s just you and me. We’re going to be okay.”
I don’t believe it. But I say it anyway.
The exhaustion hits me all at once. Bone-deep. Heavy. Like I’ve been holding myself together with pure willpower, and it’s finally running out.
The leather seat smells familiar. Safe. Like cedar and gunpowder and something else I can’t quite place.
Like home.
My eyes drift closed. Just for a second. Just to rest.
The SUV moves beneath me. I feel it—the gentle sway, the turns, the steady hum of the engine. But I’m too tired to open my eyes. Too tired to ask where we’re going. Too tired to do anything but sink deeper into the leather seat that smells like him. Just a few more seconds. Then I’ll wake up. Then I’ll deal with going home to an empty bed.
Just… a few… more…
