A soft, broken sound slips out from me, and my vision blurs, but I don’t wipe it away.
“You and Delly… you were the best things I ever had,” I whisper. “You raised me right, even when I was a stubborn asshole. Especially then.”
My voice cracks completely.
“I love you. I hope you knew that. I hope I told you enough times. I hope you felt it even when I was quiet, because it wasn’t that I didn’t feel it. It was because I didn’t know how to carry that much love without dropping it.”
I exhale, then lean closer, thumb brushing over the back of his hand.
The machines beep steadily, and Carina moves to stand behind me, placing one hand on my back and pressing her fingers in slow, even circles, like she knows I’m seconds from falling apart.
And I do.
I squeeze Harry’s hand and bow my forehead against his knuckles. Then I let my shoulders shake, and the tears fall with the weight of my grief.
Because I wasn’t ready. I’ll never be ready.
And now I’m the one being held.
Chapter thirty-three
An annoyingly magnetic blend of control and chaos
Carina
Light hits just right at this hour.
The soft golden spill of the late afternoon, which makes everything look more forgiving than it is. The ivy is catching it in pieces, the leaves still stubbornly green even as the days get shorter.
Down in the garden, Reid is bent over an old crate of rusted tools, sleeves pushed up and jaw set in quiet focus, as though he's daring the sun not to leave until he’s finished sorting every last thing.
I tip back in the folding chair, my feet propped on an upside-down box with my ankles crossed. One hand is wrapped aroundthe sweating condensation of a ginger ale bottle, the other is rest on the bump.
The hoodie I’m wearing smells like detergent and cologne andhim. It hangs off me in soft folds, tightest where the swell of my belly presses forward, firm and insistent beneath the faded Storm logo.
The baby shifts and rolls, as though she’s stretching from a nap. I glide my hand over the movement, thumb rubbing instinctively just under my ribs.
She’s been quieter this afternoon, and maybe it's because she knows. Maybe she can feel that we’re in a house that’s saying goodbye.
The treehouse stands just beyond Reid’s shoulder, the ivy creeping over the bottom rungs of the ladder. There’s something comforting about it—this place, this man, this life that somehow kept growing even in the cracks.
I can’t do much physically anymore, not with the way my body’s been pulling all its energy inward, but I can be here. I can hold space and witness the closing of this chapter with him.
Because that’s what today is. The last sweep. The last clear-out.
The cleaners come this afternoon to start the removals, and Reid’s got an away game tomorrow—just one night away—but there’s something final about this. Like we’re standing at the edge of something, and the only way forward is through.
I glance down at my feet. Swollen again, so much for elevation. I let them fall onto the porch floor.
My brain still thinks in shifts, still divides the day into consults and scrubs and surgeries. But I’m still not working, not for now.
Officially, the Moreno Clinic signed off on my maternity leave two weeks ago. Unofficially, I’m still in limbo, caught between approval and investigation, between silence and consequence.
They’ve finished collating their evidence. Conducted their interviews and cross-checked timelines. They’ve spoken to Reid, of course. I was there when they called him to request it. But since then, there's been nothing. No updates, no timeline for a decision.
It’s strategic, I know that much. They know we’re together, and they know that after Reid’s outburst the day I was dismissed, anything they say to him won’t stay neatly contained in a boardroom.
So they’ve shut it down instead. Information on a need-to-know basis. Drag it out long enough and maybe I’ll stop pushing. Maybe I’ll quietly fold into maternity leave and let it become permanent.
