Completely, entirely still, as though the sound has hit something directly in his chest. He stares at the screen until his lashes lower, like he’s trying to blink back something he doesn’t want to show.
“Fuck.”
His pinky slides more firmly around mine, and then his other fingers follow, quietly weaving into mine. I look down to see his hand fully holding mine, squeezing gently.
When I squeeze back, his eyes dart over to me, and his smile is devastating. Soft and reverent, with a sheen in his eyes. He slowly raises our clasped hands to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
I smile back, then look away before I completely lose it on the spot.
The tech finishes the scan and prints a copy, tells us what to expect, and books us in for the next appointment at twelve weeks. I don’t hear most of it, too busy trying to breathe normally again.
By the time we leave the clinic, my shirt is smoothed down, my bag is slung back over my shoulder, and we walk out like two composed adults. No one would know we’ve just watched our child’s heartbeat flicker across a screen.
That, in a small, inconspicuous ultrasound room tucked away from the world, everything about our lives just tilted sideways.
Reid hovers with the keys in one hand while the other braces lightly at my back as we walk. He doesn’t rush me, but he walks me to the car like he always does—there to catch me if I go anywhere but forward.
The door closes, and I press my palms to my thighs to keep them from shaking. We don’t speak much as he drives, or as I lean forward to dig through my handbag to find the scan.
I hold the ultrasound photo in my lap, fingers smoothing over the edges again and again like I’m trying to make sense of it.
The heartbeat, the sound. The weight of it all. It presses against my ribs in a way I can’t explain.
I let out a shaky breath, and feel him look over at me.
“You okay?”
I nod.
“You sure?”
“I’m fine,” I say, then shake my head. “I’m not. I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
I stare out the window for a beat.“It’s real. I saw it.”
“I know.”
“There was a heartbeat.”
“I heard it.” Reid adjusts his grip on the wheel and glances over. “You wanna go home?”
I shake my head too quickly. “Not yet.”
He nods once, then flicks on the indicator and turns without a word, guiding us down a quiet, tree-lined street I’ve never been on before. At the end of it, there’s a small park—empty this time of day—and he pulls in beside a line of trees.
The engine clicks quietly, and the cabin is still. I exhale and lean back against the headrest.
“That was…”
“A lot,” he finishes.
I nod, looking out the window at the Spring flowers popping up in neat little rows. The trees are blooming with blossoms, and ivy climbs a pergola.
“I know enough about failed pregnancies to know better than to let myself get attached too soon.”
He’s watching me carefully. “But?”
