Ibooked the scan across the other side of town, away from the hospital and away from Moreno. I didn’t want to deal with someone I knew recognizing me and whispering my name like gossip.
So I went for a neutral setting and a ten-minute slot in a sterile ultrasound room with a sonographer who doesn’t know who I am.
Reid picks me up, but waits in the parking lot. I told him it’d look too suspicious if he came into my office and anyone saw, so he’s in his truck with his hood up and cap low.
When I step outside into the lot, he leans over to pop the passenger door open, then sits back and watches me walk toward him.
“Hey,” he says quietly as I climb in. His voice is warm, a little gravelly. “You good?”
I nod, tugging the door shut. “Yeah.”
He shifts into drive, one hand on the wheel, the other resting up on the console between us—close enough to touch, but not assuming. He’s giving me space, but I can feel the pulse of him beside me, like an anchor in reach if I want it.
We sit side by side in the waiting room, a beat-up magazine rack and a fish tank burbling in the corner. He slouches low in his chair, eyes flicking to the door every time someone walks past.
One knee bounces in a jittery rhythm, heel tapping against the tile. He’s trying to play it cool, but I can feel it in him—the nervous energy. The weight of everything he’s not saying.
I don’t overthink it, just gently slide my palm onto his knee with a quiet press of reassurance.
His leg stills instantly, and he exhales like he’s only just realized he was doing it. And then, without looking at me, he glides his own hand up onto his knee, too, just until his pinky brushes against mine.
The room they take us into is cool-toned and smells of antiseptic. A heating vent clicks every few minutes. The monitor is angled toward the bed, cables coiled on the counter. I lie back and slowly roll my shirt up and my waistband down. The paper crinkles beneath me. My heart’s steady, but the muscles behind my knees won’t unclench.
“Hey.” Reid sits down beside me, quiet but close as he rests a hand next to mine on the bed. “You okay?”
I nod, but his pinky grazes against mine, then hooks. It’s barely a touch, but it’s something to hold onto, and I flex mine back around his.
The sonographer enters, smiling politely. “You’re here for a dating scan?”
I nod again, and she glances at the chart.
“Looks like around eight weeks?”
“That’s right.”
She turns toward the machine and begins her setup, warning me that the gel might feel cold on my skin. It does. The wand feels colder.
Reid stays silent and watchful. I keep my eyes on the ceiling until I hear the subtle shift in breath, then I glance at the monitor.
A flash of motion on the screen. A pulse of light in the middle of a bean shape so small, I wouldn’t recognize it if I didn’t already know.
“There,” she says gently. “That flutter is the heartbeat. Looks nice and strong.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. My throat is too tight. Beside me, Reid shifts, and I feel his breath catch more than I hear it. I glance over, and he’s staring at the screen like it’s rewiring something in his chest.
His throat bobs, eyes snapping to mine. “That’s the baby’s heartbeat?”
I nod once.
“Yes,” the sonographer replies, glancing over her shoulder. She smiles kindly, then turns back to the machine. “Let’s see if we can hear it.”
There’s a quiet click, and the room fills with a swishy, galloping sound.
Thud-thud-thud.
Fast but rhythmic, impossibly small and huge all at once.
Reid goes still.
